Scars
by Aelineth
Summary: Moonlight drowns out all but the brightest stars. How can one not marvel at such beauty? It was a conundrum to her beyond knowledge how the Horse-lords could disregard the most beautiful things in the world, yet small or simple they may appear. Her task in aiding Theoden King to repel against the growing war may help her better understand them. NOT a tenth-walker. EomerxOC
1. A Hopeful Flight

**Summary: Moonlight drowns out all but the brightest stars. How can one not marvel at such beauty? It was a conundrum to her beyond knowledge how the Horse-lords could disregard the most beautiful things in the world, yet small or simple they may appear. Her task in aiding Theoden King to repel against the growing war may help her better understand them. NOT a tenth-walker. EomerxOC**

**Disclaimer: I own nothing of Tolkien's world. It all belongs to Tolkien's Estate. **

**Author's Note:**

**Hello everyone, and thank you for reading this! This is not my first story, nor is it my first _Lord of the Rings_ story either, but it is my first story where I am more serious about my work, and how it appears affiliated with Tolkien's work. This is strictly to the books; there will be no movie-verse parts in this story, save for any ideas that was inspired while watching the films, but they will be altered in Tolkien's own writing. It is with the very best of my ability that I tried to pertain my writing in likeness of Tolkien's, and feedback regarding _anything_ is welcomed! Feel free to offer constructive criticism as well; that is worshiped. Additionally, it is also with the best of my ability there will be NO mary-sue characters, even an OC. This I promise: There will absolutely be no mary-sue content, and if you even see the slightest hint that managed to slip under my notice, then please let me know and I will take note of it!**

**I give my most sincerest thanks to Gwedhiel, my beta-reader. I would not be anywhere without your or your marvelous insight that has already taught me so much! Thank you.**

**Reviews are very much welcomed. Constructive criticism is worshiped. Enjoy!**

* * *

**Scars**

**Chapter One:  
A Hopeful Flight**

**Written By:  
Aelineth**

_"I will love the light for it shows me the way, yet I will endure the darkness because it shows me the stars." _

She had reached the Black Gate. Dark clouds rushed across the sky, driven by a parching wind, but now and then they broke apart and revealed the gibbous moon. By its light she could make out that before her, and all hope remaining was quenched. High cliffs upon both sides and ahead were two sheer hills, blacked-boned and bare. They were the Teeth of Mordor, two towers strong and tall, and they were not left unguarded. They teemed with Orcs, sleepless with eyes watching everywhere. Her fingers sought and found the gash where the blood still seeped through her sleeve. All her other injuries, the bruises and grazes she had amassed during her wild flight in the darkness, were nothing compared to this. She felt pressure, as if a heavy stone lay on her arm and beneath it the dagger was still piercing, digging deeper and deeper. So strange how painful such a simple metal could be, she thought.

She must not. She must not become as one of them. But she would have to address her disquiet on the matter in a safer place. First she had to find a way to pass through the gate. She glanced up at the Black Gate and frowned as a grim thought came to mind, but she quickly abandoned it. To climb the Black Gate was no wise choice, nor would she dare make the attempt.

A faint noise filled her ears, pulling her from her thoughts. Turning, she looked ahead and was uncertain whether to be joyous or fearful. She ducked behind the nearest sarsen. Haradrim, two hundred strong at least, were marching towards the Black Gate, each row carrying one lit torch. They remained far and it would take some time for them to arrive at the Gate, and thankfully the glow of their torches helped her discern the pace of their approach. She still had some time, but she would have to be swift to act. Blending with the Haradrim may be her sole chance of escaping, and it was it was a chance burdened with many a risk. But she had come this far and she would not give into her doubts. She had to be free, even should death take her in the effort to be. And if so, she would lie on soft, green grass. But she feared what might become of her.

No! It would not happen. She would fight the darkness as long as she still drew breath.

She had little enough to disguise herself, but what she had would serve her well. She shrugged off her cloak and examined it. It was long and the fabric thin and the grey dye had mostly faded, but in the twilight it was black as nightfall itself. It would hide her well and even if it did not, her garments were black to match the Haradrim's and would scarcely be seen. Her hood could be wrapped about her head in such a way as to resemble their veiled faces. The gold jewelry she wore would serve to make convincing such a mask.

Her eyes drifted to the distance. The lights of their torches still glowed dimly and the sound of their footsteps reached her ears scarcely. She lowered her eyes to her hands and for a moment, she stood there in silence as a shadow filled her eyes. She shook her head, breaking herself from her trance quickly. She donned the jewelry and then draped the cloak about her head so it covered all but her eyes. With a sigh her eyes closed and she leaned heavily against the stone. The events of the past days were at last beginning to weary her body, and weighed heavily upon her.

She moved her hands to adjust her veil, but stopped when she felt a lump within the fabric. She furrowed her brow. With care, she pulled it out without disturbing her disguise. It was a piece of parchment. She immediately recognized it. It was an order to carry requesting her to slay an enemy. The order was from her lieutenant; the last order she was given before her imprisonment. She had seen it before but had forgotten about it when she was taken away as a prisoner in Barad-dûr. Rankling as the sight was to her eyes, she was smiling. Not only could she disguise herself as one of the Haradrim but she could pose as a messenger as well, a commander of the Haradrim host, even.

As far as the guards in the towers knew, she was a figure of authority over a host of Haradrim seeking passage through the Black Gate, a mission to execute for their Master. It would be granted to her. That would be her advantage. But with it came a risk of being unveiled as a deceiver.

Readjusting her head garb, she tucked away her hair so it only flowed down her back. Thankfully, her hair was dark enough to make the disguise believable. She looked back at the marching host one last time before sliding out of hiding. Bearing what little hope she had, she strode forward to the tall and looming Black Gate and gazed at the Teeth of Mordor, its towers just as tall and strong.

In her best Harad accent she yelled to the towers above, "Open the Gate! We are to go through!"

She did not have to wait long for an Orc to peer over the parapet. He snarled down at her. "Who demands it?" He was larger than the rest of the Orcs and wore heavier armor, staring at her with black, piercing eyes.

"A messenger sent by the Master himself," she called back. "I lead a host." She gestured behind her shoulder at the marching warriors advancing to the Gate. The words were like poison on her lips, but she contained herself.

The Orc sneered and turned to another next to him and spoke in the Black Language, which she understood, however much she loathed it. After he finished speaking, the Orc he spoke to growled.

"Do not just stand there! Go down, maggot!" the commander barked. His bright, evil eyes scanned the messenger. "This one is suspicious I say…"

The Orc grunted and begrudgingly did as he was bid. Her heart began to beat rapidly. She quickly recovered herself and stood straight and tall as the Orc stood in front of her, and hoped her eyes betrayed no fear. "Where is your order?" he demanded.

She was grateful for the parchment in her possession. Without hesitation, she retrieved it and held it out for the Orc. He snatched it from her hand and gazed at it before giving her another look. "Wait here."

The Orc returned to his superior. Her attention was drawn to the marching Haradrim. They were closer now, and continued to draw even closer, faster in pace than she remembered. Or mayhap it was the fear in her heart making it look so? But the bright flare of their torches confirmed her fears. They would soon be at the Black Gate and upon a glance at the tower, she saw there was no motive to open the Gate anytime soon.

She closed her eyes and took a deep breath to calm her nerves. They would see. The Haradrim would see upon arrival that she was not one of them. Her face was unmarked, bearing no punctures of black-hued ink. They would see her hair draped down her back and would think it odd, and they would push back her veil. She knew, for she had seen plenty of inspections of Haradrim take place to know what they would look for, and the first appearance to reveal her deceit would be her pale skin. She might pass muster in the dark, but as soon as they shone a torch in her face, they would know all.

"Open the Gate!"

Her attention was brought back to the tower. Before she could register what had been said, a great noise filled the air. It echoed so terribly loud that it hurt her ears, and it took great effort to not cringe. The Orc who had demanded to see her order approached her and returned the parchment. He bid her no fair look before returning to the tower. She gave no regard to him and raised her head. Her heart leapt for joy.

The noise was coming from the Black Gate, as its blackened walls slowly parted from each other. Relief clouded her. Was it true? She had no time to dwell in her thoughts. The marching of the Haradrim no longer was a mere, faint sound. The noise came to an abrupt stop and the Gate in front of her stood open. She blinked once, then again, looking ahead. But the sounds of the marching Haradrim quickly withdrew her from the haze she was beginning to enter, and she took her first step.

At first, it was a small step, slow and cautious. She feared that, despite her success at fooling the Orcs, they would suddenly see her disguise. Or worse, the Haradrim behind would recognize her. But neither happened, and she was soon walking away from the Black Gate as it grew smaller in the distance.

And then she ran.


	2. An Endless Haunting

**Summary:****Moonlight drowns out all but the brightest stars. How can one not marvel at such beauty? It was a conundrum to her beyond knowledge how the Horse-lords could disregard the most beautiful things in the world, yet small or simple they may appear. Her task in aiding Theoden King to repel against the growing war may help her better understand them. NOT a tenth-walker. EomerxOC**

**Disclaimer: I own nothing of Tolkien's world. It all belongs to Tolkien's Estate. The only thing I claim to be mine is Duvaineth.**

**Author's Note:**

**I would like to give my most sincerest thanks to those who reviewed. It made my day to read your feedback and I take them to heart! Feel free to skip my 'thank you' if you wish! Thank you to:**

**Hobbitpony1**

**ZabuzasGirl**

**EverleighBain - You gave a very insightful feedback, along with adding what mistakes you saw and offered suggestions to fix it. I thoroughly enjoyed reading it and I appreciate it very much. I hope to receive more from you!**

**Mii3.1415926 - Thank you for your compliment! The quote in my summary is my most beloved quote in Tolkien's work. :)**

**cennadesu****Thank you so much for your words! I did not do this by myself; my beta-reader has helped me so much along the way. However, I do pay thorough attention to how I write and try my best to have it in the manner of Tolkien's writing. I do find that reading his work refreshes my mind and helps me have a better understanding of obtaining a simple and clear style.**

**cmfanreidsgirl - I am always happy to help another fellow writer, though I feel my ability would be small compared to what another could do.**

**Kat7CA - Thank you very much! I am not the type of author that wants to give everything away. I have learned it is best to keep the reader wondering, and it is with that knowledge I try to do so. Everything will be revealed within time. ;)**

**Alice-Ann Wonderland - The character is in Mordor and she is trying to escape. I apologize for the confusion!**

**MonicaClareS129**

**Tibblets**

**Reviews are loved. Constructive criticism is worshiped. Enjoy!**

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**Scars**

**Chapter Two:  
An Endless Haunt**

**Written By:  
Aelienth**

A leather bound book sat in her palms. Her eyes discreetly and slowly ran over the pages, her fingers light in touch and careful as she turned the page. The papers were worn and stained, and very delicate. Age has long affected the condition of the book, and some areas remained unclear to be read, causing her eyebrows knotting together in concentration. But a frown also sat upon her features. It spoke of a servant of evil, yet so absurdly it was written that she laughed. She wondered, however. Was there any truth to the book, and if there indeed was…does this servant still remain?

Why did she read this? Had her dreams so greatly disturbed her that she sought to read a book bound to only make them worse? Her nights were sleepless and were filled with many dark dreams. Dark memories. If she continued, she soon would be unable to even close her eyes. With a sigh, Duvaineth closed the book she held in her hands and returned it to its proper place on the bookshelf. Her eyes were attracted to the large window in the study, the illuminating light of the moon bright and alighting the room with a beautiful white light.

Duvaineth went to the window and gazed through the glass. Her eyes fell nowhere in particular, but she often looked at the rushing water of the falls in the far distance. She heard footsteps; they were quiet as though made with the intent not to disturb her, but she did not turn to meet the person. She knew who it was, and gladly welcomed their presence when they stood next to her. They said nothing, and neither did she for a moment. Finally she spoke, her eyes unmoving from the window, "Sleep remains far from me."

"Such has come to be a nightly custom," they answered, their tone giving away that they already knew her answer, and mayhap the true reason behind it.

"Come and go they do, but never from existence do they fade," Duvaineth said. "They are never far. When I close mine eyes, they return always darker than before, and so great grow they in their darkness that they would sully the earth. Life as we know it to be, but a memory carried to the graves of the Free Peoples of Middle-earth." She then tore her gaze from the window and looked at him. Sorrow drenched her eyes as the flow of a river, and despite her strong efforts to hide it, the heavy weight of weariness and trouble could not be latent. "And then I see the great flames of Evil consuming the world."

Duvaineth took a deep breath. She was quiet for some time, but at length she spoke again. "Forgive me, Lord Elrond. I know my dreams are dark and none too pleasant, and I am certain you would that you not hear in words that you have already seen, and worse."

But the Elf-lord smiled warmly. "When have you been known to dream of pleasantries? Your captivity was a trial long and painful to endure. Wise you are, but as a heavy shadow does the memory of your torments follow you. Is it such for all those who have faced such times, even my own people. But you must allow not the evil to consume your very heart, or naught will be left of you."

"Such befell me once," Duvaineth said darkly. "It shall not happen again."

"No, I believe it will not. You are of a greater strength," Elrond reassured with a smile. He rested a hand on her shoulder, a comforting touch that made vanish her fears. "I say to you, Duvaineth of Lindon, your heart is strong and your will stronger. Let not the dark vapors of your dreams cloud your mind, for you are there in the darkness no more. Sleep, and fear not."

Duvaineth bowed her head to him, a gesture the Elf-lord knew as a promise she would, or would attempt to, at the very least. "I think, Lord Elrond…." She smiled as she raised her head. "I am long overdue to seeing the world and its beauty."

"Do as you will. Your return, when you should choose to, will be welcomed and is looked upon with gladness. For you Imladris holds open her doors, for she is my home and to it I yet welcome you."

Despite the words of Elrond, sleep came not easily to Duvaineth. She tossed and turned and tried to make herself comfortable, but to no avail. The images of her dream were clear as the night, but they did not haunt her; instead, they merely lingered in her mind, and she spent a long while contemplating them, but it did not help her fall asleep any more than did staring at the ceiling. She tried pushing the thoughts away once or twice, but they would soon return, and she lied awake for many hours.

Duvaineth knew not when she fell asleep. Peace and relief washed over her as she slowly slipped into slumber, but the peace did not last long. The dream again returned, darker than before, and she felt entrapped in it. Darkness loomed over her, a heavy reminder of the shadow that followed her – taunting her, torturing her, and telling her she would never be free, and when she awoke in the morning she felt as if she had slept not at all. But she had managed to rest, though not well, and such was all she needed for her coming journey.

She packed very little, only the provisions she needed, and retrieved her weapons: her bow and quiver, a small number of daggers she hid within her garb, and her cloak. It was not often Duvaineth left the safety of Imladris and rode the plains, or hunt Orcs least of all. She loved the world as if it was her very soul, but in her heart was pure hatred for the darkness and death that had fallen upon Middle-earth and little encouraged her eyes to look upon the world. But it was her dream that had placed a heavy weight on her heart, and she desired nothing more than to put the servants of the Dark Lord to their deserving death.

And she would. She would make certain of it.

Duvaineth soon left the Last Homely House and stood in the stables, preparing her mare. She had bid farewell to Lord Elrond and the guests of his home whom she was very fond of. The Elf-lord had wished her well with a warm smile and a small sparkle in his eyes only she knew: he wished her peace. "Go with speed and watch where you tread, for danger lurks well concealed by which even the greatest traveler could be easily fooled," he had told her. His eyes then fell on the blood-red jewel lying on the hollow of her throat, and his eyes grew dark. "Be careful. Let your necklace come not to the sight of stranger nor enemy. You know who hunts you, and gladly would they have either your head or the necklace. Keep it hidden."

Unknowingly, her hand came to her necklace and gingerly fingered the stone, and immediately she retracted her hand when an unnatural coldness touched her fingertips. She dared not look at the necklace. Quickly, she stuffed it within her tunic and grabbed the reins to her horse, Gilroch, and mounted. "Tolo, melui nín, si nora-lim!" Duvaineth barely gestured for her horse to gallop – her words were enough of a gesture – and she bolted in a harsh gallop that nearly tossed her much unprepared rider from her saddle, who laughed at her eagerness.

Her horse bore her swiftly, and soon Duvaineth was nearing the path that would lead her out the valley. There, walking along the road into Imladris and standing in her way, was an old Man garbed in grey; from his pointed hat sitting on his head to the soft boots he wore, even his hair and long beard was grey, and in his hand was a staff. He stayed his walk when he saw Duvaineth galloping towards him, and he spoke, but she knew not what he said. Duvaineth abruptly pulled on the reins, shouting in Elvish to her horse, and barely came to a stop in time. The old Man laughed in delight at her, a bright shine of amusement in his eyes. Duvaineth's lips twitched into a smile. "It is unwise to stand in the way."

He raised an eyebrow at her, his smile never leaving his grandfatherly features. "It is unwise to challenge a Wizard."

"Only a fool would dare challenge a Wizard unless he stood assured he would win." The simplicity of her words was even more amusing, and his smile grew wider.

"And such is why, Duvaineth, Wizards have never been challenged!" he retorted.

Duvaineth laughed and smiled fondly at the Wizard, outstretching her arm towards him, to which he firmly yet gently grasped her forearm. "Mithrandir! It is wonderful to see you again, my old friend. But I am afraid you are a bit late to visit. I am departing from Imladris."

"Nonsense!" Gandalf said, leaning on his staff. "I knew you would be departing from Imladris. I wanted to come before you took your leave, and it appears I have done so in excellent timing!"

"No, indeed!" Duvaineth said. "Only Gandalf the Grey has precise timing, whether he is early or late."

"A Wizard is never late! Nor is he ever early. He arrives precisely when he means to," Gandalf rebutted. There was a short pause. His face softened, as did his eyes, and there was a certain look in them that Duvaineth knew all too well, and she knew what was coming. "Only comes he early when he is concerned," he added in a softer tone.

Duvaineth gingerly spoke in slight jest in the hope to raise the Wizard's spirits. However, she knew if it concerned Gandalf the Grey, then it was heavy on his shoulders, and such it was meant to be taken with all sincerity. "I am favored plenty by the Grey Wizard to be thought of. What is it, my friend? Tell me."

Gandalf drew closer to her, tenderly rubbing her mare's nose as he did, and laid a firm hand on her shoulder. "I have a message for you. It has not yet come to pass but will, and when it does I urge you to heed my words greatly, and think not of them carelessly." His voice was deep yet quiet, as if he was speaking so out of fear he would be heard by others. The deep frown darkening his features told her his words should not be taken lightly. Upon Duvaineth's nod, the Wizard continued. "When grows darker the Shadow, when becomes quiet the world and little hangs in the air…return to Imladris, and seek me."

Duvaineth frowned. Gandalf was a wise person, wiser than she hoped to be, and he could see things that even her Elven eyes could not. She often held counsel with him and she had quickly learned to trust his words, no matter how the odds might seem. Whenever she received warning from him, she heeded them. His words dismayed her, even more so to hear of the Shadow of Mordor. Glancing at the relaxing look on his face, Duvaineth saw he was pleased to see that she was deeply concerned. "I little understand, Gandalf," Duvaineth said softly. "You speak these words and of the Shadow of Evil, but you mean to say more to me."

But Gandalf did not answer her. He merely smiled at her and placed his fingers on the stone of her pendant that had fallen out of her tunic into exposure, and unbeknown to her, he casted a spell on it. "You are no riddle-master, but in time will you see the meaning of my words. So take them not lightly, Duvaineth. We will not see each other for some time, but when comes the time for your return to Imladris…do so with all the haste you can manage."

His words chilled her heart, but the gentle squeeze of his hand on her shoulder brought warmth to her body. Duvaineth nodded rigidly and gathered the reins in her hands, her eyes fixed firmly ahead. She was about to chirrup her horse into a gallop when the Wizard spoke again, stopping her. "Keep it hidden." Gandalf stepped back and smiled at her, offering a slight nod. "Farewell, Duvaineth."

"Farewell, my friend," Duvaineth said softly, and chirruped loudly to her horse. Gilroch burst into a gallop, and soon the shining beauty of the Last Homely House was gone from her sight.

Duvaineth rode all through the day, with the small exception of a meal and some rest for the sake of her horse. Although she did not have a course set in mind and simply rode where the wind blew, Gilroch had a course set in her own. She rode in the direction commanded by her mistress, but she took her far south from the Trollshaws, and nearby the Mitheithel River. The scenery around Duvaineth had changed; there were more patches of grass, though not green and in great need of water. Dust followed her trail as her horse rode swiftly over the plains, and in the near distance she saw the shimmering, flowing waters of the Mitheithel. It was a beautiful sight, though small it was; it had been long since Duvaineth had traversed the plains of Middle-earth, and she had dearly missed it.

Night soon showed signs of shadowing the world in its darkness, and Duvaineth quickly sought a safe place to make camp. Amid the grassy plains, she found a spot nearby the river. Its flowing water was gentle and quiet, and a tall tree stood nearby, providing shelter. Gilroch was not so willing, much to the amusement of her rider. Duvaineth had spent several years in Imladris, not once looking towards the valley where the world lied beyond. But Gilroch had; several years without roaming the lands was too long for her, and she was greatly eager to explore the world once more. But finally she complied. Duvaineth dismounted and made a small fire, and as the fire burned she tended to her mare, undoubtedly weary and famished from the long hours of bearing her mistress. After Gilroch was tended to and fed, Duvaineth returned to her fire and ate her own small meal; a slice of bread and an apple.

After she had her filling, Duvaineth leaned into the broad bark of the tree. Her eyes lifted to the sky and marveled at the crystalline beauty that was the stars. It was a sight that had been seen many a time before in Imladris, but in the open plains there was a certainly beauty to it that could not be explained. As memorized by the night-sky as she was, Duvaineth's attention soon fell away from it and onto the cold pressure of a stone lying on her chest underneath her tunic. Slipping her hand in her shirt, Duvaineth withdrew her pendant from its hiding spot and held it in her hand. Gazing upon the pendant filled her with relief and warmth, but also dread.

It was a beautiful piece of jewelry, one that a king could not deny his queen. The jewel lay in the center, blood red and shining brightly as if it were the moon itself, held by many silver wires and formed in the shape of a dragon's eye. But what gathered her attention was the red stone. Deep within the stone, what only Duvaineth herself could see, was a tinge of black. It swirled about within the stone like a wandering soul. It gave her a cold shiver, dark and unwanted and its touch like ice.

Duvaineth could no longer look at it, her heart heavy with a shadow looming over her. She stuffed the pendant into her tunic and closed her eyes as relief fell over her, and it was no more. The heaviness on her heart faded, and so did the dread she had felt, but when she tried to sleep she could not. Duvaineth tossed and turned for an hour in what was a hopeless attempt to fall into slumber, and it was not well into the night. Only a couple of hours before dawn did she manage to fall asleep. It was no dreamless slumber either. Dreams came of taunts and misery, and a dark menace veiled by the darkness.

When Duvaineth awoke with a start, she saw that dawn had already arrived, and the sun was slowly rising above the horizon and giving life to a new day. Doubtful she would be able to slip back into slumber, or even sleep peacefully if she did, Duvaineth rose and tended to Gilroch and herself before preparing the continuance of her journey. In less than five minutes, Duvaineth was galloping away into the breaking dawn. Gilroch eagerly bore her mistress, but this time, it was Duvaineth who was eager to return to her travels. The memories of her dream still burned harshly in her mind. But even so, she found herself feeling wearier than she had last night, and the sleep beckoning her so enticingly.

Duvaineth forced herself to stay awake, but such only worked for a short time. Somehow, she had laid her head upon her horse's neck, simply watching the scenery pass. A part of her did not want to fall asleep in fear that the dreams would return, but another part of her cried out desperately for sleep. She was unable to resist, and soon her eyes softly closed. For the first time in a very long time, Duvaineth slept a dreamless slumber.


	3. A Dangerous Road

**Author's Note:**

**First, I would like to give a big thank you to those who reviewed, and extend my gratitude to those who have favorited and followed my story since I last updated. Truly, it means a lot to me! Secondly, I would like to, of course, give thanks to my lovely beta-reader, Gwedhiel, for making this chapter and the chapters to come possible.**

**Reviews are loved. Constructive criticism is worship. Please let me know your thoughts!**

* * *

"They draw close." The smell was stronger now. An hour ago it had been but a faint scent, yet now Duvaineth's face held a deep frown in disgust.

Duvaineth looked up at the tree. She knew to where the party of Orcs headed, and surely they would pass this way. If not, she would know what their course was by the help of the tree and her eyesight. Her journey had not lacked slaying Orcs, and today was no exception. Although their plan was not certain to Duvaineth, there were two certainties of what their plan was – they were either returning to their Master, or were seeking to lay waste to homes and do the bidding of the Dark Lord. There was nothing here but grass, trees, and dirt; no villages were in sight or other travelers that might be felled by the ill fate wrought at the hands of the Orcs. But they would not go very far to ransack homes or put innocent lives to an end.

"Too long a time now have they befouled the earth," Duvaineth murmured, and swiftly dismounted. She shooed Gilroch away into the thicket of trees to her left so that she might be hidden and safe, and perchance enjoy herself at the river bank not far beyond. Quickly, she climbed up the tree, though not far, only high enough for her to be unseen. Her eyes scanned the lands below and ahead of her. Several moments passed and she did not see anything, but she knew they were near for their scent was strong, and she had to use her cloak to shield her nose from the stench.

Her eyes then caught sight of something. It was small, like animals flocking, but Duvaineth's eyes were able to perceive it better. It was the party of Orcs, and they were not far. So Duvaineth sat back and simply waited. She would not risk continuing her road with the knowledge of Orcs roaming her path any more than she would risk traveling at night. She had to be quiet and make her attack in stealth. Riding towards them would end badly. With a group to fight alongside with, it would be successful. Alone, not so much. With her having to go solely against five Orcs, there was some danger to such already. Despite their appearance and movements, they were not to be underestimated. And Duvaineth would rather flee than to overestimate her confidence.

"Keep it up, you worthless maggots!" came a growl. Duvaineth's attention was immediately caught, her eyes shifting to the nearing Orcs. They were within earshot, and she saw their pathetic, grotesque bodies marching through the thickets. Unfortunately, the smell could not be kept away.

Duvaineth slowly slid her bow from her back and held it firmly in her hand. They passed the tree in which the Elf was hidden, but quickly one Orc stopped, followed swiftly by the rest. The Orc, presumably their leader, looked around with his red piercing eyes as he sniffed the air. "What is it?" one Orc asked.

She retrieved an arrow, and notched it to the bowstring.

"I smell…Elf-flesh!"

She drew back the bow, her eyes already focused on her target.

"Elf-flesh! Where?" the Orc cried, frantically looking about. It was not out of fear, but eagerness. "I'm hungry. I do not see—"

The arrow was released, and it pierced the speaking Orc in his neck. Duvaineth frowned. She missed her target, but any dead Orc was a dead Orc. Duvaineth moved fast. The Orcs were now startled and drawing their weapons, having come quickly to the realization that they were being attacked. The Elf dropped herself from the tree and landed on her feet, though she nearly fell on her legs at the harsh movement. Quickly, she shot two arrows, one at a time, and killed two more Orcs. The time came where her quiver of arrows would be of no use to her, and she unsheathed her sword. She turned in time to meet her next opponent. He proved to be a less easy match than the two Orcs she had just killed, and she was forced to evade and parry several attacks before twirling her sword in her hand and thrusting the blade into his chest.

"Enough!" the Orc-leader sneered, brandishing his longsword. "It is my turn." He grinned wickedly at her, baring his sharp, animalistic teeth.

A challenge Duvaineth found him to be. Both sword-wielders parried and dodged their attacks. This Orc was no mere follower. He knew how to fight, but he was too confident, and it quickly became his downfall. He held his sword in both hands and swung at the Elf, but her swift dodge made him stumble, which was surprising to her. But it delayed him. Delayed him indeed, and when he turned about, off his head went. With the Orc-leader now dead, the encouraging growls from his two remaining troops went silent, and Duvaineth heard naught but the sound of the wind – and the sound of a bowstring being drawn.

Duvaineth barely turned when the bowstring was released, and the shaft missed her. Quite an aim, she thought. The Orc that shot the arrow bore a look of fear in his eyes, having now emptied his quiver and his ally bore neither bow nor arrow. Duvaineth smiled to herself, and in one swift movement, she withdrew a dagger from the inside of her boot and threw it at the Orc, and he met his fate with the blade lodged deep into his chest. All left standing was one Orc, and he delayed not in fleeing. But Duvaineth was not going to allow it without giving him a message.

An arrow whistled through the air and struck the Orc in the leg, felling him with a cry from the beast. Duvaineth hovered over his pathetic writhing and stared at him with what she meant to be pity, but instead was amusement. "Go ahead, Elf!" the Orc sneered. "Do what you will. Finish me!"

"No," Duvaineth simply answered. "You will live. But consider it not a blessing." She leaned over and carelessly yanked the arrow from his leg, and he roared in pain. "Return to your Master. Tell him the courage of the Free Peoples still stands strong, and he will have to work harder."

Duvaineth turned and left the Orc. She heard his struggles to rise to his feet and touched the hilt of her sheathed sword, half expecting him to attack. But he did not. He fled, and nothing was left but the lifeless bodies of her enemies. Duvaineth let out a breath and wiped her brow. Her attention was no longer on the skirmish that had transpired, but on her hand that bore a deep gash, and was covered in her own blood. Duvaineth frowned. She did not remember feeling pain.

A bright sparkle averted her attention from the wound. A sword lay at the Orc-leader's side. His longsword, Duvaineth realized as she crept closer to it, but it was no Orc blade. No. It was an Elven blade. As Duvaineth picked it up and inspected it, she saw it was freshly stained with her blood. Why felt she no pain when the sword cut her skin? It was strange, but more so that an Orc had an Elf blade in his possession. That alone was very interesting. Duvaineth was sure it was nothing, but she would keep it. Mayhap Lord Elrond could give her insight to the blade when she returned to Imladris.

And yet, she wondered, had the blade truly cut her skin without her feeling it, or had it merely been the excitement of battle? Duvaineth decided she would test it. Gripping the handle of the blade tightly in her hand, she held the weapon over her other hand and waited for the sharp burning sensation to come as she glided the razor edge over her palm. No pain came. Her hand bled, but she felt no pain, and the excitement of her fight against the foul Orcs had long faded. What was this? Duvaineth could not help but gaze at it as it glittered softly in a white light under the rays of the Sun, many a thought coursing through her mind. This was indeed a marvel to ask Lord Elrond of.

Duvaineth went in search for her horse, and soon found her where she expected her to be. "Well done," she murmured, tenderly stroking her muzzle. In return, Gilroch nuzzled her cheek, inciting a soft laugh from her mistress. Duvaineth turned and knelt at the river, and as soon as her wound was cleaned and bandaged, she mounted her faithful companion and hurriedly urged her into a gallop. If there were five Orcs roaming, then there were more, and Duvaineth cared not to come across the path of twenty Orcs.

Duvaineth breathed a quiet sigh of relief the moment she was out of the forest. The stench of Orcs had forced her smelling away and made her stomach unwell, and she missed the sight of sunlight filtering through the numerous trees about her. As she rode across the plains, her mind drifted to her discovery of the Elven blade. It enthralled her deeply and was indeed riveting. It was no mere Elven blade, either. It had its own ability, a part of a sword she had never seen before. The ability to cut the skin and inflict no pain was indeed mysterious, and Duvaineth could not help but wonder about it.

And all the while be troubled by it.

Her thoughts on the sword were brief. The scenery about her changed and became familiar to her again, but it brought her no relief. In truth, Duvaineth had paid little heed to where her road took her. She simply rode south and slew a small number of Orcs along the way, and then continued on. But this time she knew where she was.

She was in Enedwaith. The realization surprised Duvaineth. Verily, had she traveled so far? The thought had not come often to her mind and when it did, it was only brief. To the north she saw the grasslands and distant vision of the still waters of what she recognized to be the Fords of Isen. Rohan was not far, and neither was the welcoming Curunír, lord of Isengard, ever an ally of the Elves. Duvaineth looked eastward. Rohan was not far, and she wondered for a moment whether to cross into the lands or not. As soon as the thought came, she dismissed it. No. It was too close to Mordor for her liking. Perchance she could seek the guidance of Curunír, but it would not be today.

Duvaineth tightened her grip on the reins and guided her horse away from the east, and went another way. She would avoid Rohan as much as possible, no matter how many Orcs wandered the lands; the land alone was dangerous with its Horse-lords.

A glance at the sky told her evening would soon be upon them. Gilroch had borne her mistress throughout the day along the rocky plains with little rest, and she well deserved a good night's respite. Duvaineth soon stopped and made camp, first tending to her dear steed. "You have done well today," she said softly to the animal. She reached into her sack, pulled out an apple and fed it to her, gently brushing her flank. "Rest well tonight, melui vell. You have earned it."

The cold pressure of an arrow tip at the side of her neck made her stop. Her eyes shifted to the side, but all she saw was a glimpse of someone garbed in green and brown leather. A voice spoke, quiet and deep, "What is an Elf doing in the harsh lands such as Enedwaith? It is not wise."

"Not all are wise."

"Indeed. But you knew I was here."

"What inclines you to believe so?"

"You are smiling." Unbeknown to her, the owner of the arrow at her neck smiled too. With a soft laugh, he lowered his bow and returned the arrow to his quiver. "Dearest Duvaineth!"

Duvaineth turned and smiled at the Man before her, a look of pure joy alighting her face. "Aragorn."

The Ranger smiled broadly at her and the two embraced each other with great joy and Elvish words of greeting and happiness. "Forgive me, my friend. I am surprised to see you here," Aragorn said as he withdrew, a smile still perched on his lips. "I expected you to be in Imladris."

"Alas, the callings of the world became too loud for me to ignore another day," Duvaineth replied. "I rode from Imladris a fortnight ago, and have since been treading many roads."

"And by chance we meet here, of on all interesting lands to meet."

"I think we know come this time the odds of our meetings to be fairly strange, friend, and roads not far from interesting."

"No, indeed!" Aragorn laughed.

A fire was made, and they sat nearby the burning flames. Aragorn told the Elf all to have transpired in the recent months since they last saw each other. As a Ranger of the North, he did not lack stories to tell. As grim as they often were, there were some that were enjoyable. Duvaineth happily listened to the stories her friend recounted, whether grim or not so, or those that lacked the entity of Orcs. She was happy to see him again after so long, and his company was quite comforting to her after several days of bearing such heaviness on her heart. His stories lifted her spirits. It was soon Duvaineth's turn to share her own tale or two. "Before my departure from Imladris, I crossed paths with Mithrandir. He bid me farewell with a riddle."

"Ah." Aragorn laughed heartily. "Why lack I any disbelief?"

"Often speaks he in riddles, and often wonder I if he speaks them with meaning or to feed the fire of his amusement," Duvaineth said, laughing also. "But this was no riddle of bidding a simple farewell or safe travel. It was…grim, and long has it remained upon my mind. It was a warning, I believe. About what, I know not. He told me it has not yet come to pass, and I feel it concerns the growing strength of Sauron."

Aragorn frowned. His interest piqued, he leaned forward, anxious to hear of this riddle. "Tell me," he urged.

Duvaineth nodded. She thought back to the Wizard's words and, clearing her throat, she repeated them. "When grows darker the shadow, when becomes quiet the world and little hangs in the air…return to Imladris, and seek me. He warned me we would meet not again for some time, and deeply does it worry me."

Aragorn leaned back and pondered it. His frown had deepened as he contemplated her words, nodding after a moment. "I see how you mean," he said, and sighed. "Unfortunately, I must agree with you, and you know I would go to agree with gladness on many things, but on this I would that I could disagree with all fervency. His riddle indeed concerns the strength of Sauron. Perchance might it be he gathers more forces? I cannot say for certain. But I would dwell not upon it too heavily. When go you to again traverse your road, your mind shall be needed elsewhere."

Silence fell upon them, but it was soon diminished by another tale from the Ranger. Yet his thoughts remained on the Elf. He wished her not to dwell on such troubling thoughts no more than he wished himself not to. Often her mind was visited by them. As Duvaineth divided some bread and fruit, Aragorn asked her a question that caused her to pause, but she knew he spoke out of concern for her. "How fare your dreams?" When he saw the sudden stillness of her hands and the gloomy look in her eyes, Aragorn knew the answer. The dreams had long returned, and darker than before. He smiled sadly. "You need say nothing. I am sorry."

After a moment, Duvaineth let out a long sigh. "There are very few to whom I speak of my dreams. You are one of them. But you need not your question answered, for assuredly you see the answer in mine eyes alone. They are my greatest weakness. I had hoped when setting forth from Imladris they would cease; as though the lands alone might ease them. I was wrong."

"Is such why you sought to travel?" Aragorn asked gently. He earned a nod from her.

"I cannot sleep. I know not when the last time I slept peacefully was, to have no darkness disturb me," Duvaineth said. "I am weary, Estel, yet afraid to close mine eyes. He haunts not only my dreams, but burdens my heart with a heavy shadow as well. Am I to ever be free from these nightmares? Or am I to live these days with little peace to mind and heart, forever shadowed?"

Her words were sincere. If one did not believe such to be true, then a glance at her eyes would quickly change their mind. She lived in an endless fog of darkness, and a heavy heart of sorrow. Little brought her peace, and not even the healing of her own kin could wash it away. Although she had been healed of her physical hurts, she was healed not of the wounds of her memories.

Aragorn gently took her hand in his own and, squeezing it tightly, he spoke to her in a tone only a brother could voice, "You are a strong elleth, Duvaineth. Told me you have of the times of darkness you have suffered, darker than that you suffer at present. I have seen you bear through the shadow that follows you as a haunt. Wan are these days for all the Free Peoples of Middle-earth. You know well of my love for the wild to be far and great, yet in the wild even I struggle to find contentment. But you will not falter. This I know truly."

The sadness still lingered in her eyes, but on her lips was a smile. "Thank you, dear friend," she whispered. "Your words soothe my heart. Although the shadow comes and goes as it wills and often lingers more than I desire it to, you have eased it. Such is my hope that the darkness one day shall meet an end, that we may see light."

Aragorn merely smiled, and said nothing. But he needed not to; his smile was enough in words. He too hoped one day the darkness would end.

It was Duvaineth who offered stay for the wandering Ranger. Night had now fallen, the air having grown chilled, and Enedwaith was no place to wander come nightfall. As keen as Aragorn's eyes were, they were no vision of an Elf's, and could easily betray his safety, unlike in daylight where he scourged every morsel of his surroundings. Aragorn gladly accepted her offer and in return, he offered to keep watch. Had it not been for the knowing look and raised eyebrow Aragorn gave her, Duvaineth would have protested, but she knew, even though he took watch throughout his travels, some nights not even entailing a slumber, Aragorn still slept more than her.

Duvaineth agreed, although begrudgingly so, and went to sleep, but not without difficulty and the occasional shift and shuffle in her bedding. This went not unnoticed by Aragorn. Soon came the tossing and turning and the quiet murmurs from her lips. Though her voice was soft, Aragorn heard her and recognized the name she spoke in her sleep and the pain that touched her tone. His heart ached for her. Aragorn turned away from his watch and went to the troubled Elf, and knelt at her side. Tenderly, he placed his hand upon her forehead and murmured softly:

"Gerich 'ûn sui raw,  
'Law lîn síla sui Ithil,  
Meleth thilia min hin lín,  
Suil Annui, erio thûl lín i faer hen."

Her fervent, restless tossing and turning ceased as calmness fell over her. She soon entered a peaceful, dreamless slumber, her dark dreams but a mere flicker upon her subconscious. She would sleep tonight shorn of the heavy weight of her dreams haunting her, but Aragorn knew the soothing of his words would be short-lived and she had many a night before her upon her journey. He could only hope peace would be found amid some nights, for sleep came seldom to Duvaineth and peace least of all.

"Rest well, Meluiwen," Aragorn said softly. "You well deserve it."

Morning came all too soon. As dawn made its peak, the two travelers rose and quietly shuffled around and prepared for their departure as the hour approached. A fire was kindled, a small meal was eaten, and Duvaineth tended to her horse to ensure she was prepared for their journey. "Alas," Aragorn said sadly with a sigh, "it is here we must part ways. I would it be not so, for it has been some time since last we walked the same road together and dearly miss I your company. But I know you shall be well. Paths more dire you have treaded, and Enedwaith is naught compared to where you have treaded before."

"Nor is any road you should tread foreign to you. But I fear not for you, and I pray you be well and unhindered along your journey all the same!" Duvaineth said.

Aragorn smiled and gently held her face in his hands, leaned over and pressed a soft, lingering kiss on her brow. "Be safe, Meluiwen," he softly bid, and then he turned away and departed.

Duvaineth watched as the Ranger disappeared into the wilderness, cloaked with his face hooded and unseen to the world. A twinge of sadness stung her heart as she remembered Mithrandir's words, and she hoped it would be not so with Aragorn as well. "May this be not our last meeting for some time," she said quietly, but her attention was soon torn away by the soft caress of her horse's nose pressed against her cheek. Duvaineth laughed softly and reached up, stroking Gilroch mane. "Let us go, sweet one. The day awaits us." And she was certain Gilroch was eager to begin their trail.

Elf and mare rode through the day, save for a number of rests. However, such rests were brief and Duvaineth continued with haste. A growing uneasiness had been upon her since the morning. It did not lessen, and only continued to trouble Duvaineth as the day grew. And yet, nothing stood within sight nor could she smell anything in the air. There was naught of a suspicious sound beyond the thundering gallop of her companion. All was silent – mayhap too silent, and such increased the unease she felt. It gave her all the more reason to hasten, and she did so with an urgent chirrup to her horse. If Gilroch was not disquieted how her mistress sat stiffly on her back, then it was the tone of her voice that did, and she rode with greater speed.

Duvaineth soon began to notice the weariness befalling her horse. They had been riding since their last respite in the late morning, and it had been a few hours since then. Gilroch looked to be both forwandered and forhungered, and was in need of some rest. Duvaineth found little joy at the thought of staying Gilroch's pace as the uneasiness continued to dwell on her as a shadow, but she wanted not for her dear horse to collapse either. Given no choice, Duvaineth complied with her horse's needs and brought her to a watershed of the Angren. As Gilroch eagerly drank the flowing waters of the bank, Duvaineth quenched her own thirst.

"You must be hungry," Duvaineth murmured to her companion. She dismounted and retrieved her sack, searching for some food for her. She pulled an apple from her sack and held it up to Gilroch, who happily munched away at the offered treat. At seeing the quickness of her horse's eating, Duvaineth could not help but smile. "Forgive me, sweet one! I should not have neglected you so."

Gilroch swished her tail in response. Duvaineth laughed and reached for another apple, but stayed the motion. Her eyes shifted to the side and intently gazed at the plains behind her. There was something following her trail – or someone. It was near. Duvaineth's unease had erstwhile been seldom strong, even amid the present day, but she felt the disquiet to suddenly roar as a fire in that moment. It did not settle well with her. Quickly, Duvaineth retied her sack to the saddle, mounted Gilroch, and in a strong voice she urged the horse onward. Gilroch, too, seemed to have sensed their guests, for she rose on her hind legs and burst into a gallop and bore her mistress faster than Duvaineth had ever seen her run.

Duvaineth looked behind her only briefly, ducking as an arrow flew an arm's length above her head. She looked behind her again and this time, she was met with a displeasing view – and now knew the reason for her unease all throughout the day. They were no ordinary Orcs. They were Warg-riders. They rode fast and fierce against the wind, nigh as fast as Gilroch. And there were many of them. Mayhap she had made the mistake of continuing in Enedwaith.

Another arrow was shot, but it again missed her, nearly grazing her arm. Duvaineth turned around, retrieved her bow and notched an arrow, and shot it at one of the archers. It went into his chest and he fell off his Warg, defeated and left behind. There were three other archers among the large group of Orcs, and they all had their bows drawn and ready to fire. "Noro lim, Gilroch! Noro lim!" Duvaineth shouted, and her horse heeded the command.

Duvaineth turned again and shot another arrow, but missed. She needed not to succeed in her aim to lose one of the archers on her tail, for Gilroch rode under a tree and a thick, looming branch threatened to hit her in the face. Duvaineth ducked in time to avoid the collision, but the archer did not and fell from his Warg. Duvaineth would have laughed were her situation not so staid. She steered Gilroch in another direction, but her attention was heavily focused on her enemies. And notching an arrow and drawing back the shaft with what strength she could muster and trembling hands, she little noticed her surroundings or where she was steering her horse.

Had she been more precise with her aim and target and took a moment to look about her, she would have noticed the rocky and green pastures of Rohan.

* * *

**Author's Note: A small side note of two things. The translation for Aragorn's lullaby is:**

**You have a heart like a lion,**  
**Your radiance shines like the moon,**  
**Love sparkles in your eyes,**  
**Western Winds, may your breath lift this spirit**

**And Meluiwen means lovely/sweet.**


	4. An ill Day

**Author's Note:**

**Hello, and happy late Holidays and happy New Year, everyone! I hope you had a wonderful holiday! Admittedly, I took a 'break' from my writing over the holidays - Hey, don't roll your eyes; even an author can take advantage of the holidays ;) - but I am very much ready and excited to return to writing and to share it with you all! This next bit is a mere thank you to particular people who left feedback and addressing an issue that has been made known to me, and yadda yadda yadda. Unless you're simply curious and want to continue to read my author's note to those readers, then feel free to just skip to the chapter! ;)**

**Alice-Ann Wonderland, K****at7CA, ****WargishBoromirFan - Where would I be without you three? I am very grateful for your feedback, especially you pointing out an issue you have noticed within the context of my chapters. I am now aware the dialogue comes across as awkward or hard to read, and I will run it through with my beta-reader to hear her thoughts on it. She is very well versed with Tolkien writing style and knows quite a bit; you should read some of her stories, really, they are fantastic! Even so we may have missed something, or I may have tried to reword a sentence and forgot to send it to her. Thank you for letting me know, and thank you for your support. It really does mean a lot to me!**

**Reviews are loved. Constructive criticism is worshiped. Please let me know your thoughts!**

* * *

_"Argh!"_

_Thump._

The last archer was slain. However, Duvaineth did not celebrate. The arrow buried deep in her shoulder distracted her from even the thought of breathing in relief. Celebrating would be far too dangerous while her victory and fate remained unknown to her. She knew it was only a matter of time before either her horse would tire out or the Wargs would catch up to her. It would be the end of Gilroch, a horrifying fate, and one certainly not deserved. Not when Gilroch had always remained faithful to her. No. It would not happen. Duvaineth would not allow it. She would have her flee. At least her life would be spared and she would find safety, and mayhap someone to care for her. It was a sacrifice Duvaineth was more than willing to make.

Duvaineth would fight her enemies and their pets to either her victory or death. She only hoped Gilroch would be safe.

"Flee, _melui nín_!" Duvaineth spoke to her horse. "Leave me be! Find safety!"

Duvaineth hoped, as she pulled her legs over to the side, that her horse would abide by her words. Gilroch was a faithful one, a steed never willing to leave her mistress. It was only in the most perilous of times the horse obeyed her mistress' commands for her to leave her, and even then there came many a time when she did not do so. This time, Gilroch did heed her words, much to Duvaineth's relief. The mare did not slow her gate when her mistress threw herself from the saddle and onto the ground, and soon Gilroch was but a small dot in the distance, soon disappearing within the body of knolls. Duvaineth was given no time to watch after her horse, for as soon as she dropped to the ground she heard a loud snarl and howls followed after.

The first nock of her arrow was ineptly aimed due to a trembling grip. It missed her target, but it grazed a leg of the Warg. It slowed the Orc-rider, yet it was not enough. It all happened in a blur for Duvaineth. She remembered only leaping out of the way, nocking arrows and slaying as many Wargs as she could. When her arrows became ineffective, the Elf drew her sword and quickly made her attack on them. Their riders fought back, and the Wargs attempted to as well. Duvaineth did well dodging and parrying the attacks, and managing to kill a small number of Orcs and their mounts, but not all. And then there came a searing pain shooting through her abdomen and all became but a very distant memory to her, so distant she could recall little as she fell to her knees. She remembered the sword striking her abdomen, staying in its place, and a great pain shooting through her entire body as she fell back. Defeated, darkness took her.

It was brief and when she awoke, a snarling Warg baring its teeth hovered over her face. The remainder of the Orcs sneered at her, but she did not hear them, her heart pounding heavily in her ears. "Leave her. She will be dead before we can have our fun," one Orc laughed wickedly. And then they were gone, certain her wounds would take hold of her.

And Duvaineth was certain, too.

* * *

"My Lord Éomer, ahead! A horse!"

The Third Marshall lifted his head and looked ahead among the dry heaths. Indeed, it was a horse, and galloping at a speed he had never seen one ride before. "It is frightened." He meant to speak quietly to himself, but instead he spoke in a loud voice. He mustered an ungainly apology for who he was speaking with before their interruption and spurring into a gallop, riding towards the frightened, fleeing white horse, and calling behind him for someone to follow.

Still mounted, Éomer reached the frightened horse and hastily but gently reached over and grasped its reins before it could be out of touching distance. "Whoa! Whoa, there! Easy, little one….Be not afraid." He gently stroked the steed's mane as he softly spoke in the Rohirric tongue. It eased the horse, but not much and not for long either. Soon, the horse was neighing loudly and rising on her hind legs, forcing Éomer to tighten his grip on the reins and gently pull her back towards him. She did not obey, however, and continued to fight.

Éomer again reared the horse back and continued to stroke its mane. As gentle as the touches were and the attempt to soothe its nerves, the effect was little. Déor, the rider that had followed, wondered out loud, speaking in a curious tone, "What could have brought it in such distress?"

Upon the question, the horse reacted as if she were answering. She reared back again, but this time her head turned towards the east. Éomer followed the horse's gaze, and immediately an ill feeling fell upon this heart. The mare had not come alone, the Horse-lord was certain of. "It tries to tell us something. I fear it may have a master and they are in trouble."

Quickly, Éomer dismounted his horse and moved to the other one, murmuring soft words as he carefully mounted. The horse allowed him, stopping its rough movements and standing still to allow him to settle in the saddle without rearing him off. "Gather half of the éored. We ride east."

"My lord! What if there is a large army whence the stallion came? We shall need more than half of them."

"We will soon learn the truth of the matter, no?" Éomer smirked. Without another word, the Horse-lord held onto the reins and turned the mare towards where she had gestured earlier. But before he could urge her forward, she let out a loud neigh and charged in a swift, almost alarming gallop. He had ridden across many plains in his life, and swiftly so, but never before had he ridden a horse with so much speed, against the wind itself no less.

There was little to see upon arrival at the sight, for it was almost barren save for the several bodies of Orcs, and a lesser number of Wargs. But there in the center of the field underneath a tree lay a lithe body. As Éomer dismounted, he noticed the person's breathing was shallow. He was alive. Relieved, but not slowing in haste, he quickly rushed to their side and knelt at the ground, but he stopped as astonishment swept over him. This was no Man. Nay, it was a woman, and no mere sword-bearer indeed. The carcasses of the Orcs and Wargs proved otherwise. But then Éomer noticed something, something rather strange, poking from the side of her hair. Carefully, he moved a few strands from their face and found the answer to his curiosities.

This was neither man nor woman, but an Elf.

Before he could dwell on the discovery, Éomer noticed the sword imbedded in her abdomen. Blood seeped from the wound, but it was the only wound that appeared to be the most severe out of the rest. He also took notice of the arrow in her shoulder, and one in each leg. Cuts and scratches adorned her cheeks and hands, and the sleeves of her tunic were partially ripped, revealing fresh, but smaller wounds. It was when he lifted his gaze to the injured Elf's face that he saw the deepest, most beautiful brown eyes he had ever seen staring at him. So she is conscious, Éomer thought as relief washed over him. He inwardly sighed.

She was looking at him, but her focus was scarce, and it was doubtful she knew of her surroundings. But he needed to know if she could hear him, and more importantly, if she could speak.

"Can you hear me?" he asked her, and received a slight nod in response. "Good," he said. "Do not move, my lady. Your wound will worsen should the blade move any further."

As he slowly, and very carefully, lifted the Elf in his arms to lay her half up right, he could not stop himself from wincing at both the painful sight and the gentle gasps and whimpers coming from her mouth. Her lips parted slightly as she attempted to speak, and it took several tries before she was able to force them out. "How…." She stopped and took a respite from speaking to gather her breath, finding it difficult to speak, but only a soft moan came instead of her words. But he knew what she was trying to ask.

Her voice was hoarse and sounded weak. Weariness was heavy in her tone. Éomer paused, his fingers now brushing against the hilt of the sword to grab it. He looked at her. "Your stallion is a very persistent companion, my lady," he answered her, forcing what he thought was a smile.

"Duvaineth," the Elf gasped. "You may call me Duvaineth…Horse-lord." Her breathing was becoming ragged.

"Duvaineth." Éomer nodded. "Your horse led me here. He was in great distressed, and no matter my attempts he would not be calmed. Then he led me east, and such is how I found you."

"She. Her name is Gilroch."" Despite the severity of the situation, she still managed to find humor in it and smiled.

"My apologies. Stay still." Éomer grasped the hilt of the sword. He looked at her, his eyebrows raised and eyes apologetic. "This will hurt." And slowly he pulled the blade from her body. It was not painless as he had said, but Duvaineth had felt worse, and despite this, she could not hold back the groans as her body burned with a torturous pain. At last, the blade was withdrawn from her and Duvaineth was left gulping for breath, and for a short time her heart pounded in her chest.

Éomer stared at the Orc blade with a dark look in his eyes, but his gaze was soon drawn to the injured Elf in his arms. He smiled at her, a soft light in his brown eyes. "I am Éomer, and you will not die this day. I give you my word."

Duvaineth managed a small smile before the weariness was too heavy on her. The pain had caused great strain on her body, and slowly she slipped into a deep slumber. Éomer's gaze was no longer on the Elf in his arms, but on the blade that had been imbedded in her. He held it tightly in his hand. The mere look at it both angered and disgusted him. The vile smell coming from the blade did not ease his revulsion. However, he soon realized the blade did not smell of only Orc and blood. This was a different smell. Looking more closely at the blade, Éomer saw a strange liquid intermixed with the Elven maiden's blood. It was thick and dark looking. He immediately knew what it was.

It was the loud neigh of a horse that broke him from his reverie and he looked behind him, startled but only briefly. It was his éored, having come as instructed by the command of their Marshall. Déor was the only one to dismount and came rushing to his lord, too kneeling at his side. The expression on his face upon realizing the warrior in Éomer's arms was in fact a woman, and an Elf at that, would have been more amusing to the Horse-lord were the situation not grave. "A…A…" He could not even utter the words out.

"An Elf," Éomer finished for him, a light hint of amusement in his tone, though he knew that was not what he was astonished by. Before another word could be spoken, Éomer's face quickly hardened and creased into a deep frown, and his eyes turning dark. "The blade used upon her had been coated in a lethal liquid. She has been poisoned. We must take her to Edoras – now."

Gilroch showed to be less agreeable with Éomer. She refused to allow the Horse-lord to come anywhere near her without her mistress within sight, and nearly kicked Éomer in the face. He successfully dodged the near attack and, despite wishing to not submit the Elf with too much movement that the journey would certainly provide, was forced to carry the Elf over to the stallion in fear of nearly being kicked in the face again, causality he wished to avoid. She was a stout mare, Éomer would say that much. The ride to Edoras was brief, but he doubted it was near comfortable for Duvaineth. She drifted in and out of consciousness several times, and was awake to feel a very uncomfortable jolt as they passed over the plains. She certainly felt it and, though her noises of pain were quiet, Éomer heard them. And so did Gilroch, who did not take the painful sounds coming from her mistress lightly, and so sped faster.

At last, the small mound that was Edoras was within sight and hastily Éomer rode through the gate. He paid little mind to the stationed guards and did not perform his custom to acknowledge them. Éomer's eyes were affixed elsewhere; a tall and majestic building that he looked upon with pride. Meduseld, his home. If only he returned with good tidings. Éomer did not waste another moment when he arrived to the flight of stairs leading to the great home. He swiftly dismounted and took the Elf in his arms, hastily climbing the stairs as he shouted orders to those about him. "Send for the Lady Éowyn, and be swift! Tell her I bring a guest in need of immediate healing, lest her death be upon our hands!"

Éomer rushed in Meduseld and sought an empty room, ignoring the puzzled looks and questions he received. He entered the nearest room and brought her to the bed, gently laying her down. The room was not much; it was small, but provided the necessities needed. He went about the room, fetching supplies that his sister would need. As Éomer brought the supplies to the bedside table, the door to the room flew open and a woman with golden hair and bright eyes rushed inside, stopping near the bedside of Duvaineth. Her eyes lifted to the Horse-lord without more ado. "Éomer!" she exclaimed breathlessly. "What has happened?"

"I will tell you later," Éomer promised. "She needs to be healed." He looked at the injured Elf beside him and then at his sister, his eyes conveying the urgency. "Immediately, Éowyn."

Éowyn only nodded. She leaned over and sought the wounds their guest bore, grimacing when she saw the long and deep gash on her abdomen. "This looks not to be a simple wound. Verily, Éomer, never do your returns lack surprises."

"It is becoming a regular occurrence, to be sure," Éomer scowled.

Éowyn did not answer him. She dipped the washcloth in the water and held it to the wound. "Have you any further surprises for me?" It was a murmur, spoken as a bitter jest. But as Éomer gazed at the pale, sleeping Elf, he hoped he would not again come across these 'surprises' for a long while.

"To be honest, sister," Éomer sighed, "I think I would prefer to have been pitted against a score of Orcs than to have found a dying Elf."

"I will do what I can, though little assurance can I grant you," she said quietly. "You must leave. It is not proper."

Éomer smiled to himself and slowly rose to his feet. "I know when my services are needed no longer," he said with a chuckle, and turned to the door. But he stopped and looked at his sister. "She is in good hands, Éowyn. This I know with great certainty." With a smile, Éomer turned and left.

"I hope," Éowyn murmured. She returned her attention to the septic wound and cringed at the sight, immediately searching her parcel for a particular herb.

Healing the wound was no easy task. The gash was long and deep, and much blood was already lost. Éowyn soon discovered the poison's attack on the Elf's body was slow. It brought little relief to Éowyn, however, and she wondered about the strangeness of it. Although luck was with her this day, Éowyn remained wary and concerned. She did not know for how long their injured friend had been bearing the wound, and Éomer spoke little of her. How long had the Elf been suffering the wound? Éowyn could not say, but she knew something for certain – she would heal from the wound, a lengthy time though it would take. Éowyn took joy in that at the very least, even if it was small.

Éowyn then tended to the smaller, less threatening wounds and cleaned away the blood and dirt that still remained. She then rose to her feet, finished, and let out a long sigh she did not know she had been holding. It was done. She would live. Now she needed rest – much rest.

Éowyn glanced at the door. She wondered where her brother was. It would be some time before their guest would rouse from her sleep – Éowyn wagered a good half day or so, and went in search of Éomer. She did not search for very long, for she soon found him in the hall nearby the room. He was in heavy discussion with someone, but when the door opened and Éowyn emerged from it, Éomer tore himself away from his company and went to her. His concern was evident in the depths of his hazelnut eyes. Before he could open his mouth to speak, Éowyn spoke, answering his unspoken question. "She will live and now rests. And of rest she will need plenty. To say she is well is difficult to speak. Come the time she awakens she will feel pain, and to heal her from the poison I used all my herbs. I need more if I am to ease the pain when she needs it."

"I will obtain more for you," Éomer said with a nod. His eyes shifted behind her to the door, then back to his sister. He smiled, but it fell when he saw the grey look in her eyes. "Look not so forlorn, my sister. You healed her! So smile for it."

Éowyn ignored him. "The poison was slow. It was meant to torture her until her last breath."

"Such is the way of Orcs," Éomer replied grimly. A thin thread of sarcasm hung in his tone, his hopeful attempt to remedy his sister of her bleakness rendered only a fruitless one.

Her brother's dry sense of humor often incited laughter from her. There was no man other than her brother who knew how to turn her frown into a smile, and keep it that way so that she would not fall into a bleak face. This time, however, Éowyn was not amused. "What happened?"

Éomer sighed and again looked at the door leading into the room their guest occupied. "If I knew, my dear sister, I would tell you."

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**Author's Note:**

**For those who may be wondering: No, Gilroch is not a Mearas. Although the appearance of her speed indicates it, I assure you she is not one of the Mearas breed. It would be very unlikely for Duvaineth to ride her if she was, or even**** Éomer himself. Not to worry - you will know soon! :)**


	5. Welcomed and Unwelcomed

**Author's Note: No, I am not dead! A miracle, I know. College has recently started back for me so my focus has been on it while continuing my writing with Scars. I would like to give my biggest heartfelt thank you to those who have reviewed the previous chapter, and those who have favorited and followed me and my story. It means the world to me that so many are following my story, so thank you so much! I would love it even more if you told me your thoughts about the story. An author always loves feedback for their work, especially if it's to help them improve! You don't have to write a novel; just simply tell me your thoughts. It really goes a long way! :)**

**As always, any significant notes about the chapter will be noted at the end to your viewing and curious pleasure. Reviews are loved. Constructive criticism is worshiped!**

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_"You are awake, I see. Always you savored your sleep." He stood before her, and she beheld his face in a soft glow of amber from the torch aflame he held in his hand. A smirk tugged at his lips, yet beneath the surface of his piercing green eyes, a dark look adorned them under the dim room and glow of the fire, and she saw past his roguishness. She had known him for far too long to not dismiss the sparkle of concern deep within his eyes, though it be small. The love he once openly showed hardly lingered, but it was there._

_"I am very doubtful any soul can rest in these shackles."_

_"Do not snap at me for your own misgivings. You brought this upon yourself, Elf."_

_She did not answer. Instead, she slightly lifted her head and looked at him with the eyes that had always softened him, that had always returned him to his senses when his temper beset him. It did little this time, however. He returned the gaze with his hard eyes, an eyebrow raised, expecting her to answer. When she failed to do so, the Man merely laughed and turned, and looked about the room, in which she had been held captive for a number of weeks, his back turned to her. "You were oft the one of silence. Yet I understood. Why can you not return the same to me?"_

_There was a long moment of silence. It lingered more than she desired it to, and it tugged at her heart the longer the air remained still but of breath. At length, she answered him, slow at first and her voice quiet, growing stronger as she spoke. "And yet I have prevailed." A tired smile came to her lips. "I am sure your master finds that very displeasing."_

_The Man stopped and his back stiffened. Only she could know that was a motion of annoyance. He eventually turned back to her. The smirk had departed from his lips, but the hard gaze in his eyes did not. "Indeed he does." He sighed, and pulling an old wooden chair closer to him, he slowly eased himself into it. "Your will is far too great, Duvaineth. More than his patience could ever be. He will come to grow ill-pleased. You know the custom treatment given unto our prisoners."_

_Duvaineth shook her head slightly. Her eyes glittered softly, though he did not see it; he was avoiding her gaze. "You all are prisoners. To this are you shortsighted, or be you so blinded by his ill tongue of promises that you fail to see what he does? Servants to him you are not, fulfilling his will and thusly earning of rewards. You are thralls, bounded to him, and will receive naught."_

_"Oh, rousing speech, one who speaks of hope."_

_"Círdir."_

_He looked at her. If the hardness in his eyes had faded when he kept his gaze from her, then it returned the moment she spoke his name. "Do not call me that."_

_"That is your name."_

_"I must correct you. It was my name – until you ran your blade through me."_

_"You left me no choice."_

_"No." He abruptly rose from his seat, standing tall and his shoulders squared with heavy tension. "You had other choices. You chose that which you did."_

_Círdir's words only brought a smile to her lips. But it was not of joy. It was of incredulity. "Then, allow me to ask this. What of you, Círdir the Renewed? Choices were set before you, yet you chose to betray your brethren. You tormented and killed them, dismembered and dishonored them. Recall you not? Or bear you needless anger towards your own people that it has become but a distant memory?"_

_And he went away from her, her words a dark haze on his heart. It would be the last time she would see Círdir the Renewed alive._

Duvaineth awoke with a slight start, a quiet gasp escaping her lips, and forthwith was her body wracked with pain. Her movement, though it had been slight, incited pain and she could do naught but lie there in wait for it to pass. It did after some time, yet not soon enough, Duvaineth thought. Swallowing hard, she closed her eyes as she tried to relax her body into her bedding – which was soft and felt cool to the touch, and was rather comforting to her tired and aching body. She felt weak, her skin moist and cool by the perspiration that had begun to form, and her heart madly racing. She already felt weariness creeping upon her. Opening her eyes, Duvaineth gazed up at the ceiling above her. Her eyebrows furrowed. Turning her head, she looked up at the window nearby where she laid. A soft, dim light shined through the glass and bathed the room in a warm, amber glow. She guessed it was now evening, or close. The time of the day was no concern to her, however.

Duvaineth could not remember taking refuge from the open plains of Enedwaith, nor could she remember falling asleep in bedding where the ground was not beneath her. It dawned on her; no more was she in the wild. If she was not, then where was she? It was a wonder, but before Duvaineth could dwell on it further she was swept with a heavy wave of lethargy. She was unable to resist the calling to sleep; her mind was tired and her body more so, and the continuous throbbing pain coursing through her body only made her wakefulness wretched. It was but a blur in a candlelit fire, and a moment later she fell into a deep slumber, the little but strenuous efforts having been a great strain on her.

But little were her dreams pleasant.

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Éomer strode in brisk, quiet strides as he made his way down the empty corridor. He passed a small number of men on his way; no more than two at the very least, and returned their acknowledgement of his presence with a nod. But his mind was not concerned with acknowledging their respect as he passed them. His mind was elsewhere on a different matter. Éomer was uncertain how he would present the news to his uncle about their new guest. However, that matter was the least of his concerns. His true worry was Théoden King's Council, and if they would or would not be in the presence of the king. Éomer thought not ill of them, for he thought well of them and favored their guidance and wisdom, yet he knew it would be trying to dismiss the council from the king once they had heard of the pressing matter that was at hand, and more so would it be if Grima Wormtongue was present.

Wormtongue. The mere thought was poison on his tongue. Were it not for him being the king's advisor, Éomer would have seen to his departure long ago. His presence was little desired by him, and he was not the only one who desired him to leave. He was an ill man who spoke ill tidings with his tongue, his eyes gleaming darkly and eagerly and was often set upon his sister. The mere thought angered Éomer, and it was then he noticed he had clenched his hands into fists. If he did not like the Man for his sole appearance and voicing his opinions disrespectfully so, then it was his lust for Éowyn that which he detested him for.

When Éomer arrived at the Golden Hall, he half expected to hear hushed voices echoing in the large hall. He did not, and took a long pause straining to hear any voices that mayhap alerted him of his uncle's council in presence. When he received no an answer to his wonder, though taking the silence yet as a good sign, Éomer quietly moved behind a post and glanced from the side. He saw no one, and the king's counselors showed no sign of being within sight, much to the great relief of Éomer. There was only one present in the hall. Kingly, he appeared, sitting on the throne; his head raised high and proud, and his gentle but stern eyes staring before him. His face bore no smile or feeling, but it was clear he was quite content sitting in the silence that had been given to him, and Éomer was loath to disturb his uncle from what was perchance a moment of peace from the overseeing of his council; it was a rarity even for Éomer to breathe without someone at his side.

Éomer stepped away from hiding and walked forward, approaching him. He was greeted with a smile – such Éomer had not seen for some time, as his uncle's time was heavily consumed with many meetings concerning matters of the Mark with his council and allies, and most often, saved for a very small number, many were greeted with a sigh and a look of disdain shadowing his features. Éomer had expected the latter, but was pleasantly surprised. Nonetheless, he happily accepted the greeting. "My nephew! Come. It has been some time since I have seen a friendlier and less irate face."

"Have care with your words, uncle," Éomer grinned. "I am a Man who enjoys a challenge, and will take any string of words as an offering of it."

"And so you do!" Théoden heartily chuckled. "But let there be none of that today. I wish to enjoy your company, not spar with you."

"Do you not find sparing as enjoyable as you do my company?"

"Only when you lose."

Éomer roared with laughter, his uncle quickly following suit. Their laughter quelled after some time, and Éomer became serious. "Forgive me, uncle. I know how little your time spares you from the burdens of your counselors and everyday matters that find their way to you, but I have a matter I must bring to you most urgently."

Théoden did not sound or show his displeasure. It was the wary look in his eyes that told Éomer his words were far from appealing to him. But he nodded and with a wave of his hand, Théoden gave admittance. "Tell me, then, and let us be rid of it as quickly as we can. Seldom is it I receive peace from my duties, and I would fain indulge in them for as long as I may before again my duties beckon me."

"Yes. Of course." Éomer cleared his throat and after briefly forming the words he wished to say in his head, and thinking to his encounter with the Elf – Duvaineth, she had told him was her name. "There is a new guest in your halls. She is called Duvaineth, and she is wounded. I came upon her in the fields of the West-mark as I was scouting those lands upon your order. She bore a grievous wound that was poisoning her, and with as much haste that could be mustered I bore her here. Éowyn has healed her, and she now rests. Forgive me, uncle. I should have sought your consent before settling her so comfortably in your home, but her life was in my hands. I could not let her suffer—"

Théoden raised his hand, silencing him. "You need no forgiveness of mine, my nephew. What wrong have you done? None at all! You saved one's life, and such is more than I could ever beseech of you while you perform your duty I had bid you to do. I would deny no person that bears hurts a home, a grievous wound least of them all! You did well, Éomer."

Éomer bowed his head. "Thank you, uncle. Éowyn is with her at present, I believe. I left her, as she was beginning to look over her wounds."

"How long ago was this?"

"Not too long ago," Éomer replied. "Mayhap an hour, two at the most. I had to make quick arrangements to gather some healing herbs she may need hereafter, should she fall short of herbs for soothing the wounds of our guest."

"And I have finished." Éowyn appeared, pausing to bow to her uncle. Her appearance was lesser than when Éomer had seen her last. Her face was strewn with a heavy frown and her eyes tired; her long golden hair, which ere had been let down to flow freely, was now restrained in a tight bun with several long strands of hairs having escaped and clung to the moist skin of her neck and cheeks. The urgency of their guest's health had left a heavy weight on her, and the toils were now beginning to settle upon her.

"Has she awakened yet?"

"Only once, but it was brief. I gave her some water."

"And her wounds?"

"It took a great extort of energy and many supplies that which I am now spent of, but I have healed her wounds. I gave her a tincture to help counteract the poison. Now she needs rest."

Théoden's eyebrows rose in interest, yet behind the curiosity was deep concern. "Poison? You say she was poisoned?"

Noticing the heavy weariness about his sister, Éomer spoke before she could open her mouth, speaking grimly, "Yes, she was. When I found her, there was a blade imbedded in her abdomen, and when I withdrew it from her body I smelled a very strong odor from it. I knew the smell too well to be unmindful of it."

"Orcs," Théoden said despondently. "Such is the favorable custom to their enemies: torture."

"I foresee her becoming well in the coming days, though her recovery will be slow," Éowyn said. "But she will live."

"And we will let her rest," Théoden said. "I ask that you watch after her, Éowyn. See to her hurts and comfort. For now, rest. Very weary you are now, and well deserved it is."

"Indeed!" Éomer agreed. "You need sleep just as our guest does. For surely, if you weary yourself so, then it will be I who will carry you to bed myself," he added with a grin.

Éowyn laughed softly and nodded. "Very well. I will go and rest, and will return to our guest in a little while."

"Good then." Théoden nodded approvingly, smiling. "You spoke of your supplies to have been depleted in the event to further heal any hurts, yes? I do believe Éomer has remedied that issue, and you will be fully stocked with whatever you need."

"Yes," Éomer confirmed. "Amid your time of tending to Duvaineth, as promised I went and gathered for you some herbs. I know little of healing, but I bought them upon the recommendation of the woman who gave me the herbs, and they will prove useful should you need them. Should you need something specific, only say the word and it will be provided."

"Ah!" Éowyn said. "Duvaineth is her name? I will have to remember that, then. Thank you, brother. You truly are a blessing."

"Now go," Éomer said with a nod in the direction of the hall to their left. "Rest, sister. I will see you this evening."

She started to turn away when Théoden's voice stopped her as he rose from his seat. "I should like to escort you to your bedchambers, if you will allow it. So little do I receive the opportunity of peace, and I would fain revel in such time free of such irritation with my beautiful niece as often as I may. I do not spend it with you enough."

A soft smile graced Éowyn's lips. She bowed her head. "I would be honored, my lord."

With a last farewell and bidding to his sister to rest, Éomer turned and departed from them as they too left, going their own way. His walk was short and had little excitement, for he dwelled on his thoughts. It came to an end, however, when Éomer heard a shout. Shaken out of his reverie, he looked up and saw one from his éored approaching him with haste, a frightened look about him as if he had seen a great host of enemies. When he came to a stop before his Marshall, he was frazzled and out of breath, and hunched over his knees as he tried to properly regain his breath. "My lord…the white horse…you have brought, the one belonging to the Elf…refuses to be handled. She still remains at the stairs of Meduseld, and rears back and struggles, and rises on her hind legs. She kicked a few men to the ground who dared to near her. The horse is mad!"

Were the situation not so trying for his men, Éomer would have laughed. He even found himself chuckling, but it ceased upon the ill amusement on the Man's face, and he wondered what Éowyn would do were she with him. She would have given him a look, undoubtedly. Éomer inwardly smiled at that. He then grew serious, and with a pat to the Man's shoulder, Éomer turned and began walking down the hall to the great hall again. "I assure you. The horse is anything but mad."

When Éomer departed the Golden Hall, he saw that the Man's words had not been spoken in exaggeration. There was Gilroch at the feet of the flight of stairs leading to Meduseld, a small number of his éored attempting to take control of the reigns and pull her to the stables, but every attempt was folly as she refused and reared back. She rose on her hind legs once or twice, and nearly caused one to tumble to the ground. Éomer found the display rather amusing and stood there watching for a moment, but quickly he noticed the distress the mare was in and with hurried steps, he walked down the stairs to his men. "Enough!" he bellowed, and immediately upon hearing his voice, the Men stopped and looked at their Marshall with such relief that Éomer had never seen before in them, and he nearly laughed out loud again. But now was not the time for laughs. "You are causing the horse great distress. Leave her be!"

The small number of his éored that remained moved out of the way as their Marshall came forward. He took the reins from one and with soft words and a firm but gentle pull at the leather cords, Éomer brought her closer. At first Gilroch refused to relent, and quite harshly so. Even Éomer struggled to pull her back to him, but he continued the efforts gently, and all the while murmuring words of comfort in Rohirric. If she could understand his tongue, he did not know; but it soothed her, and at last she relented to him and allowed the Horse-lord to go near. Éomer reached out and tenderly stroked her neck, continuing with his gentle words. "There, there, little one," Éomer murmured affectionately to the stallion. "You are safe. No harm will come to you."

After great length in tender words and loving caresses, Gilroch was calm. Éomer heard some let out sighs of relief while others murmured words to one another. The Horse-lord did not hear much of what was spoken, only a small number. He distinctively caught a few words, however; 'mad', 'Elf', and 'curse' were among them. He heard them clearer than the rest. The Men of the Mark were somewhat wary of new wonderers, the Elves being the least desirable kindred to enter their beloved land. They were often ill thought of, believed to be evil of some kind bearing sorcery. It was long said they had a great "queen" hidden in the depths of trees in a forest named Lothlórien. Éomer hardly paid much mind to such conversations between his brethren; if anything he entertained himself to hear their talk.

The days had become darker and bearing lesser friends, that much was true; even he himself had long become wary of strange wanderers coming into the Mark, but he thought little of Elves. He certainly thought them not to be some evil soul carrying with them a dark magic. He was given little time to be wary of Duvaineth as a poisoned sword was imbedded in her abdomen. Though her situation was rather curious to him, and he had little to explain to himself what may have transpired, her wounds had not been staged. The Orcs littered on the ground spoke very strongly of the battle that occurred, and while Éomer felt he should be wary at least to a small degree, he verily doubted she meant any harm.

"Surely this horse is under a dark spell," one of his éored said.

"Yes, it would offer little surprise, if at all, to learn that Elf-witch placed the mare under her spell."

"It is a pity—"

"Enough!" Éomer whipped around and glowered at them with hard eyes. "The horse is under no spell, nor is the owner of any sorcery. She is foreign to our people just as we are to hers. What makes her a wielder of dark magic? Is it because she is an Elf? Foolish words you then speak, and boldly so. She could think us as ruthless Men with little care to that which breathes. If you feel she is truly of danger, then do go before Théoden King and tell him of this, for I am sure he would take absolute delight in hearing such about the guest in his home."

None spoke. They dared not even to share glances. "Well, then, my brethren," Éomer nodded at their sudden silence, "I advise you, Riders of the Mark, think before you speak and take great caution in your words and assumptions of one who needs aid. We risk our lives in the fields of our home, fighting and protecting what we love and hold dear to us. It is where that our wits are required of us. Surely you can afford to retain your common sense, with your tongue of all if not your decisions, when you stand not at battle. Even at home causing offense to one is very unwise, just as it is unwise to let your guard down in the fields of battle."

Having spoken his mind, and desiring not to hear words that had yet to be spoken by any of his men who would want to, Éomer turned his back to them with a sharp turn. Now faced with the mare, his gentle nature won over his sternness, and with a soft click of his tongue, he then led her away from the Meduseld and bore her to the stables. There, he tended to her, giving her a bit to eat and allowing her to quench her thirst. He sat on a stool nearby watching her, and though a headache had come to presence, the Horse-lord could not help but smile as Gilroch hastily drank from the trough. "You are very thirsty. I do not doubt it. You had quite the trial today, yet you prevailed well against it and saved your mistress from certain peril."

Éomer rose to his feet and went to the horse. He ran his hand over her side, lightly patting her in appraisal. "All she needs is rest and time to heal from her hurts, and I doubt not you too need your own respite. Rest well assured; the one who you bear through many roads will be well."

Éomer brought her to an empty pen and saw to her comfort one last time before leaving the stables. He found himself stopping for a brief moment to gather his own respite, having not realized he had been on his feet without pause since the moment he returned to Edoras. Despite how tiring it was, Éomer preferred it as so. Many a thought were on his mind and he found the distraction to be somewhat uplifting. He bore a frown far too often than he desired to but he could not see himself smiling during such times. Darkness went on to creep over the earth, shrouding them in a great fog. War was threatening the very existence of Middle-earth, and all that breathed and walked upon it. The Riddermark alone struggled against the advances of their enemies. Éomer hardly found reason to smile. So scarce it was whenever he did smile that it felt very foreign.

Although he did find the absurdity of his men to be quite amusing, despite the indignation of it, it had been rather refreshing. Humor had long been spent from him. Mayhap some things were possible.

Éomer sighed heavily and rubbed his eyes. It was not yet past noon and already he felt tired. He looked where he had last been at the steps to Meduseld and shook his head. It would be a very long day indeed.

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**Author's Note: Cirdir, as you may have guessed, means 'renewed'. I also took it upon myself to attempt to add some humor into this chapter. It has been a rather grim two or three chapter's, has it? As much as I would love to live in Middle-Earth I cannot imagine the War of the Ring was a pleasant time to live in. ;)**


	6. Awakening

**Author's Note:**

**Don't worry, I still live! I promise! I am still writing the story and have not given up, though the process of getting things done are both due to me and my beta-reader both, but I am hoping to pick right back up again once more. Thank you to everyone who last reviewed my chapter, and hope to hear your feedback on this one as well. Your feedback is so very helpful and welcomed, and I appreciate so very much. Enjoy!**

**Reviews are loved. Constructive criticism is worshiped.**

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When Duvaineth came to the realization that she had been staring in the darkness of her surroundings, she wondered for how long she had been awake. Surely not for very long. All had not passed her by so quickly, or had it indeed? She could not say. It felt not long, though time often slipped past her like whispers of the wind, swiftly and quietly. Mayhap it was best she did not know, Duvaineth thought, for she was certain her cringe would be very noticeable if she learned just how much time had passed since she was last in the world of wakefulness. Yet even so, it gnawed at her like a beast upon its meal. Had she not miserably failed in the attempt to rise from her bedding, Duvaineth would have sought to find an entrance so she might discover the truth of her surroundings, should she succeed in even sitting up. She fell back into her bedding with a quiet sigh, wincing slightly as a sharp jolt of pain coursed through her abdomen from her movement.

"Here." A Man approached her. In his hand he held a small goblet and extended it to her. "Drink this. It will help strengthen you."

Duvaineth shakily accepted the goblet and took a small sip. It was water; fresh and cold, and it tasted sweet, like honey. She took another sip, and this time hastily gulped it down until it was emptied. "Thank you," she said hoarsely and she returned it to him. "What was it?"

"Holy Basil," he replied. "It is an herb. I crushed a small portion and mixed it into water."

"I am familiar with Holy Basil." Duvaineth nodded slowly and managed what she thought was a smile. "Thank you."

Her eyes fell to the window next to her. It was night, and darkness veiled the room save for the dim light a small number of burning candles provided, one which stood on the bedside table. Her mind, where ere it had been heavily fogged, was beginning to clear. What had been a faraway memory was returning, slowly but surely. She was in Rohan, that much Duvaineth knew. She had been chased into the land by Orcs and their beasts, and had sorely lost the battle and was left to a slow and painful death, yet it was clear such did not come to her. All then seemed a mere blur as she slipped in and out of consciousness, time but a flicker in the dark.

Duvaineth shot a brief glance at the Man who had given her the water. His back was turned to her at present, returning the now empty goblet to its proper place. At the door stood an older woman, silent and her eyes fixed ahead of her, but Duvaineth's gaze on her was brief before returning to the Man. He was familiar and she now knew why. This was the Man who had come to her aid on the back of Gilroch. Though the fog had cleared from her mind and she was able to now think more properly, should her mind allow her when yet still fatigued, her memory failed her. She remembered little: the Orcs riding their beasts, the long chase into Rohan, and then the cold steel of an Orc's blade going through her body. Her encounter with the Horse-lord was at present scarce to her memory as well, but little by little it returned to her, yet greatly it yet remained blurred all the same.

She must have had a look of confusion upon her face, for the Man – Éomer, she remembered – turned and saw the look on her face and spoke, "You were gravely wounded. I rode with great speed to Edoras, where here my sister healed you of your wounds. For five days you slept, save for the brief stirrings long enough to keep you hydrated."

Five days. She was less surprised than she thought she would be, having had expected a greater length of her unconsciousness. And yet she thought to herself that, surely, it had not been so long. Plainly it had, indeed. The thought was soon gone from her mind and another came, one that struck her with great worry. "And Gilroch?" she then asked. "Where is my horse? Is she safe?"

"The brave and very stubborn mare! She is safe," Éomer assured. "She was taken to the stables and has since been tended to. She is well and unharmed."

Relief flooded over her worn features, and she breathed a sigh of relief. "That is joyous to hear. I am glad. I would thank your sister when granted the chance, and you as well, Horse-lord, for if not for your aid and hers I would not be here."

"You will soon have the chance to thank her," Éomer said. "Since your arrival she has remained at your side, and so great was her vigilance in tending to your wounds that I can little relay how often she treated them. She now sleeps. It was her request that I see to your comfort before retiring to my bedchambers, and look here! You have awoken. To hear this she will be most glad."

"Wholly glad would I be in expressing to her my gratitude for all she has done for the sake of my life," Duvaineth said. "And yet out of all I must thank you, for you had delivered me to safety. It is so, for my life was at your very feet! You gave me mercy, and such clemency is more than I can say for any other Man who may have come upon me. Thank you, Horse-lord."

"Nay, call me not such! I believe we forego such formalities when we exchange names upon our first encounter," Éomer chuckled, to which she responded with a smile. "If as Horse-lord you so address me, then I shall do the same and call you Elf. Call me Éomer, and whatever name you would wish to be called I will hereafter speak, should it not be Duvaineth."

"You remember my name."

"Of course," Éomer said. "It is a unique name, and one I had yet to hear. Such a name is difficult to forget."

"Very well," Duvaineth agreed. "I will call you Éomer, so long as you call me Duvaineth."

"So be it, then!" Éomer said. "And now that we have reached an accord, I think it is best if you sleep some more, for verily, you look worn and in need of rest. As my sister bade, I have come and saw to your comfort, and glad I am to see that you have awoken. But now I bid you to rest."

Duvaineth nodded. "I will, should sleep come to me. Scarcely does it come, but tonight I do feel weary and I think I will have little trouble finding sleep." But would she be visited by dreams or left to a peaceful slumber, she wondered.

"Good! Then I will leave you to your privacy, but ere I depart, I must first insist you help yourself to water. For some days now you have slept, and thusly consumed very little. I will rest easier at the knowing you have had something."

"Because you insist, I will." Duvaineth smiled. "I mind not, regardless. The water is quite sweet on my tongue. I rather like the flavor."

And so Éomer again filled the goblet with the water that had the herb mixed in and Duvaineth, rather thirsty herself, drank the water until the there was no more. Afterwards, Éomer bid her a final goodnight, offering a slight smile, and then left – but not without glancing at her once more on his way out. The door closed and his footsteps disappeared, and Duvaineth was now left alone. She sighed as she leaned back into the comforts of her bed, and her eyes danced around the room. If she hoped to see any of her surroundings, then it was fruitless, for she could see very little but what the dim burning flicker of the candles could provide. Despite the shortcoming of its use, she did not mind. She was able to see the shadows in the room, and it was good enough for her; though there were very few shapes that stood.

Weariness was now beginning to creep upon her, its thick cloudy air stronger than before. Duvaineth loathed the thought of sleeping, though she promised the Horse-lord she would. Yet in the midst of her displeasure, there was a part of her that wished to. Would she sleep dreamlessly, or would the nightmares come to haunt her? Even if she was tired not, it would be some time before the Sun would rise, and what then would she do in the hours of twilight?

Duvaineth sighed again. She would sleep, should it be dreamless or not. She knew she needed it, and so she slipped into slumber; and much to the pleasantry of her fearful mind, she slept dreamlessly and peacefully that which she could not remember she last had.

When Duvaineth next awoke, it was morning. She felt better; weariness was not overpowering her as it once did, and she felt her strength renewed. Her mind was now clear of its fog and she was able to think more properly, a gain she was most grateful for. She wondered if it was the effect of the Holy Basil. Though her body ached, a bright burning sensation coming from her abdomen, it was not as painful as she remembered it to be. But she was not alone. A woman with long, golden wavy hair stood near her bedside. She was facing Duvaineth, but her attention was deeply diverted on her task in disposing of the worn and dirtied bindings that, from what Duvaineth could only assume, had been used for her injury. However, at the soft shuffling coming from the bed upon her movement, the woman's head immediately lifted and her eyes fell on Duvaineth.

She smiled. "It is true! You have awoken, and appear not so weary that you will fall back into slumber as you hitherto have. How do you feel?"

"Well," Duvaineth replied, "at the very least I am sore and at the littlest of movement my abdomen burns, but I fare better than I once did. Are you who healed me of my grievances?"

"I am. My name is Éowyn," the woman said. "You were brought here well-nigh a week ago, bearing a wound most disturbing to any healer's eyes, yet so often such a wound comes in sight. My brother Éomer was who bore you here. You are very fortunate."

"I am indeed," Duvaineth said with a slight smile. "I have met your brother. We spoke brief words to each other when he found me, and thereafter until yester night when he saw to my comfort I remember little."

"Yes. He told me of his encounter with you last night," Éowyn replied. "Served he the Holy Basil to you as I asked him?"

"He did."

"Wonderful!" A bright smile lit her face. "It will help with your recovery. I ask that you continue to take it. It will quicker heal your wound as well."

Duvaineth nodded in agreement, offering a smile, but she said nothing. Éowyn returned to cleaning as she remained silent, and at length Duvaineth spoke when a curiosity came upon her. "You spoke I bore a disturbing wound upon my arrival, a wound you tell is often borne. What wound was this? There are many as such spoken of."

Éowyn wavered, a look of disquiet on her once smiling features. She paused in what she was doing and fully turned to her, and spoke in a soft voice. "You were poisoned. Éomer described it as an Orc blade. It is a dreadful wound Men of the Riddermark have returned with many a time, and some not returning at all, but the tale of their demise relayed. Those who do return yet still alive with a poisonous wound either succumb to it or heal from it. You have done the latter."

"Then I am indeed most fortunate and have much to thank you and your brother for, Lady Éowyn. I thank you, truly I do," Duvaineth answered, her voice quiet as if she were dismayed by her words, and yet she smiled nonetheless, a kind light in her dark eyes.

"And you are welcome to it," Éowyn said benevolently. "I would not have left you to suffer and die. Nor would have my brother allowed such a fate be done unto you. Man or woman, or Elf, it matters not." She then offered a smile and turned away briefly, returning with a platter of food: Warm broth and two slices of bread. Alongside the bowl of soup was also a goblet filled with clear liquid that Duvaineth registered as water, the sweet aroma from it filling her nostrils she knew to be Holy Basil.

"I brought you something to eat on my way here. It is not much, but is as it should be. You have gone nigh a week without food. It is best to slowly fuel your appetite. I bid you eat, even if you feel you cannot."

Duvaineth ate slowly, and Éowyn sat with her. They spoke of many things of pleasantries, an affair that had not come in some time for the Elf. Even though she felt starved as her stomach angrily roared in need of food, and the strongest urge to swallow it wholly was beset upon her, Duvaineth savored the delectable taste. All through her journey all she had to eat was bread and fruit, and the small occasion of a buck when given the chance to hunt. Quickly it became tiring to eat and she soon missed the warm and generously large meals in Imladris. The broth and bread was small compared to what Duvaineth was accustomed to, but gladly she ate it to the very last crumb until all there left was her yet untouched water.

Picking up the goblet, Duvaineth brought it to her lips and took a deep sip, sighing as the cool beverage washed down her dry throat. Her eyes suddenly became interested in the goblet she held in her hand. It was silver and bore decoration that was elegant and beautiful. Verily, it was quite elegant and beautiful. Her eyes lifted to Éowyn. "This is a stunning goblet. Whose home might I be in? It is far too opulent to belong to a commoner."

"Your words are true. Belong it does not to a commoner," Éowyn answered. "You are a guest in mine uncle's home, Théoden, King of the Mark. He has learned of your hurts and bids you rest, and to mend well. And once you are well he wishes for you to dine with him. He will take great pleasure in it and desires to know better his guest than what he knows now."

"Your uncle is very gracious. Please extend to him my gratitude," Duvaineth said. "As for dining with him, it would be my own pleasure to do so, particularly if it will allow me to personally thank him."

Four days had since passed. Duvaineth continued to improve by the day, the healing touch of the Holy Basil a great help as it slowly regenerated her strength. Yet it would be some time ere she would be capable of walking without it causing her strain. Rising from bed alone was a difficult task, one that was slow and incited soreness from her efforts, and beseeched much patience from her. Having spent many a year dwelling in Imladris, and having spent them in the company of Lord Elrond for as long as her memory willed her, Duvaineth had long learned such a virtue, but she herself found it to be quickly thinning. Her wound had been deep and not many wounds heal quickly, although the Holy Basil proved to being a great assistance to her recovery and Éowyn's talents in healing numbed away the pain.

Despite this, Duvaineth greatly desired to be free from the chains of her bed. A week and a half had since passed her arrival to Meduseld. She remembered Éowyn telling her Théoden King bid her well and a swift recovery, in hopes she soon may dine with him. Understanding ever so was the King of Rohan in her inability to do very much. Yet, Duvaineth found little good in the thought of making wait a king for the appearance of his guest, for she had been keeping him long in wait and she was more than eager to escape her bed, no matter how soft it was. Unwell or not, Duvaineth would dine tonight with the King of Rohan.

Éowyn was concerned at first, but Duvaineth merely waved it off with a smile and reassuring words, though silently feeling doubtful in how well it would all come to pass. Éowyn relented after some time and began making preparations for Duvaineth to appear more appropriately before the king, for her torn tunic and breeches were not complimentary. However, for Duvaineth, the process of easing out of bed was one of many words, and though she felt less pain and it required a small amount of extortion from her, her limbs were very unfamiliar to such movements and need of strength after being abed for so long. But she succeeded and grinned in victory, yet she wondered how she would ever be able to return to it. She would not think on that at the moment, though the image of her attempting to shuffle back into her bedding while minding her wound was rather amusing, even to her.

Yet even amid her own amusement, Duvaineth worried. She could only hope the night would fare well for her. She knew little of Rohan and her people, and lesser was her desire to, but she knew the ill thoughts they bore to the Elves; evil, possessing a dark power and besetting a spell upon any whom they wish by the mere glance at their eyes and the slightest sound from their tongues. She knew even less of their king. Would he show her courtesy, or did he too carry the ill behavior of his people? Duvaineth sighed and shook her head to herself, removing the thoughts far from her mind. She should not be so quick to judge, for she knew not of Théoden King and his demeanor. If he is the uncle to Éowyn then indeed, his behavior was that of a good Man, and she would return the same kindness to him that had been extended to her, whether he knew of her Race or no, even if no kindness were given to her thereafter.

"The fields fare well, my king. No Orc dare roam our lands, and if any foolishly do they will not withstand my éored." Éomer slowly sat in one of the many chairs at the wide table, where to his left his uncle sat in an ornate chair at the left end, who smiled in satisfaction at the news brought to him.

"These are good tidings, indeed!" Théoden said. "Continue to keep your eyes on the Westfold. Orcs may yet wander our lands. We can ill afford to assume they will not, a small number of them or none at all."

Éomer nodded firmly. "As my king commands, so it will be done. Now…." His lips twitched into a smile. "Where is my fair sister? She is late."

"Never expect to wait any less on a woman than they do you, my nephew," Théoden said with a chuckle. "They will sorely turn your expectations sour."

"Ah," Éomer chortled. "Surely it cannot take Éowyn such time to ready herself! She requires little of it, and knows well the importance of food to Men."

"Which gives her all the more reason to take her time."

Éomer chuckled. His eyes suddenly then caught a blur at the entrance of the room, and he lifted his eyes. His sister at last had come to join them, but Éomer's eyes were not on her. Instead, he gazed upon the Elf at her side, astonished to see it was Duvaineth, on her feet and looking quite well; better than when he last saw her, and at the sight he was glad. With a smile his uncle arose, Éomer following suit, and the king extended a warm welcome to her. It was then when Duvaineth's eyes shifted to Éomer's . He simply nodded at her, and in return, Duvaineth smiled. It was small, but he found himself unable to conceal his own and returned the silent gesture. She spoke, her gaze returning to the king before her, "Thank you, Théoden King, for your kindness and most gracious hospitality extended unto me. It may be little to you to open your home to someone, for great is the Golden Hall, but to me it means more. I shall not forget it."

"Come, then!" he invited. "And feast with me and my niece and nephew, whom are very much like children to me. Let us enjoy this evening that has been given to us."

Duvaineth smiled. "It would be an honor, Théoden King."


	7. The Dinner

"From whence do you hail? These are dark and strange times upon us. Scarcely do we receive guests or come upon one wandering our lands. An Elf is the least expected traveler."

"I hail from Imladris, my lord, a home to the Elves and to all those who are weary, and those who bear hurts are healed of them." Duvaineth took a light sip from her goblet. Their wine was sweet and fresh, but different. There was no other beverage that could be compared to the rich and savory sweetness that was the wine of her kin. Lowering the goblet to the table, she continued, "It has been my home for many a year, well beyond your youth."

"Beyond my youth!" Théoden roared with laughter. He incited a tender smile from his niece. His nephew, however, snickered. "Alas! If only. Do you not see an old Man when he is before you?"

"Elves do not see Mortals as aging beings."

Éomer was intrigued by her words. "Pray tell," he said, one eyebrow raised. "How do the Elves perceive them?"

"As children, imbued with life and curiosity, yet wandering the world. I speak of you as akin to children not out of contempt, but Mortals pass beyond all our understanding, I deem, for you assuredly do with mine. You are just so young, even as your life is limited. Death is unnatural for Elves, but a state we may be made to endure as a consequence of the Marring of Arda. But for Mortals death is your end, and you know it comes, yet you cling to life as though in denial of your fate, fighting it when beset with malady, refusing to be slain by even the most perilous wounds, though slain you may be. I can little understand it, this denial of fate, but a Man once spoke to me it was more of you meeting death on your own terms instead of submitting to its cold slade as cattle to the slaughter. And though you know death comes, you live for so short a time as Time is perceived by the wont of Elves. Time for me is but a commodity to measure the passing years, yet you Mortals measure every year that passes. Every month, every day, every hour even. And I can little understand it, how Mortals are so obsessive over such little time passing when to me that span of time is nothing." There was something about her voice that was enthralling. She spoke softly yet her voice was deep, and admiration was seeped in her tone. There was something else, Éomer noticed, though he could not discern. It was well hidden.

"That is an astonishing vision through the eyes of an Elf, and one I had not yet heard of."

"I see as I see, Lord Éomer, though oft have I heard those of my kin greater in age and gen speak wondrously of your culture, words both wild and wise unto mine ears, for they say our ways are perceived as peculiar, for all that we think the ways of Men are strange, as you do us."

His lips threatened to twitch into a smile. "You speak truly. I concur with your words. Indeed we are different from each other and our ways believed to be strange, yet it should not permit our courtesy to one another to flee."

"Yes," Duvaineth said. "Let us hope it will remain, to Man or Elf, or to Man and Man."

"Indeed," Éowyn agreed. "In my time I have spent with Duvaineth, though short it has been, she has shown naught but kindness and gratitude. If this is the way of the Elves then I shall neither think nor speak ill of them, for I have been given no reason to."

"My people can be as wary as the Men of the Mark of who enters their lands, but they are welcomed and treated well with kindness in spite of their wariness," Duvaineth warned her. "Their trust is earned, however, and seldom is it done effortlessly."

"And thus brings forth my curiosity." Théoden slightly leaned forward, his hands together in front of him. His gaze was hard pressed on Duvaineth, but they were not hard; rather, a light shone in his eyes. "Why have you come so quickly to trust my people and my home, and those who dwell here?" He raised his hand and gestured to his niece and nephew, indicating his point.

"The House of Eorl spared my life. I was given mercy when I needed it the most. Such kindness extended to one will not be forgotten, nor will the trust be so easily broken or doubted," Duvaineth answered. Her voice had sounded simple, as if there were no other way to speak of it. She leaned back into her chair and her eyes moved to Éomer, who was regarding her with great curiosity. She smiled daintily. "Would a Man of the Mark not do a deed selfsame?"

"They would indeed," Éomer replied. "Or I should hope they would! Do tell me, however, for I am very curious. What drew you hither to the Riddermark?"

"I do believe our meeting on the plains demonstrated well how that came to be, Lord Éomer." Jest hung lightly on her tongue. It was both amusing and bitter, for there was truth to her words.

Despite her ill humor, Éomer gave a short laugh. "Yes, it was. That is not how I meant, however. I would hardly call our meeting to be one of pleasantries. You were surrounded by a fair number of Orcs and Wargs. Yet it surprises me not. Often are travelers waylaid and therein fall to a very unpleasant death. I wonder. You say you hail from Imladris? What caused you to leave the borders of your home? What called you forth?"

It was a question out of sincere curiosity, and one Duvaineth did not expect to come from a Man. She was silent for a moment, and glanced around her. Théoden gazed at her from his goblet, and Éomer patiently waited, his curiosity far too great to be concealed. Éowyn, who had been seated at her side all through the evening, smiled at her. She, too, was intrigued; if she was more than her brother then she did not show it, yet her eyes were bright with excitement to hear of her travels. And then Duvaineth pondered the question – What had been her cause in departing from Imladris? Was it the heavy shroud of darkness that refused to leave her, even in peaceful lands of the Elves promising of respite? Mayhap the long years that had come to pass with her eyes veiled stubbornly to the world, or could it have been that, desiring nothing more than to ease her nightmares, she thought mayhap that unweighing her troubled mind to the beauty of the world would have helped.

Duvaineth found her answer.

"Do you have time for a long story, my lords and lady?" she asked.

The question was one Théoden took favor in, and he reclined back in his chair as he happily accepted her offer, waving his hand kindly to her in a gesture that said 'Yes'. Éowyn herself was excited by her answer, and Éomer was deeply intrigued, leaning forward against the table just as his uncle had earlier. "You are my guest, Mistress Duvaineth. You forget how greatly we of the Riddermark indulge in tales and songs. You may speak of any story as you wish, brief or long. We will gladly hear it."

"Very well. I will tell you my tale," Duvaineth said. And so she relayed her travels to them, telling them of her cause for leaving Imladris and all which had transpired since her departure, and eventually coming to an end when Éomer had come upon her wounded and in need of aid. She had spoken true when she warned her tale was long, for indeed her tale was not short of measure. It mattered not, for the tale was enjoyed and her encounter with the Orcs was found to be most intriguing by Théoden King and Éomer. Her discovery of the riveting Elvish blade, however, was yet to be mentioned.

As much as her audience was listening, it was during her storytelling when Éomer then noticed something about Duvaineth. On her neck was a strange marking. It was dark and the mere sight of it sent shivers down his spine. And then he wondered, what was it, and how did she come to have such a marking? However, looking closely at it Éomer discovered it was no mere mark. It was a burn. She had been branded. By whom and for what cause? Éomer found himself deeply wondering this. Were it not for the dark look it bore, he would have thought little of the marking, and by how she had spoken strongly of her hate for the foul servants of Sauron, Éomer knew she bore neither love nor allegiance to him. The burning hatred in her eyes had said it all.

He would not think on such thoughts now, though his silence was unknown to the Elf and his sister as they happily spoke to each other. Éomer had to smile at that. Long it had been since Éowyn had had a friend, burdened with many duties in the Golden Hall as a lady of the Mark, a life often lonely. He was glad to see her to make a friend in Duvaineth, who just as well appeared to enjoy her company as much as Éowyn did.

The night wore on. Éowyn soon took her leave, having felt weariness settling upon her like falling leaves, for the week had been heavy with toils and her concern for Duvaineth great, and she received little rest, but now would rest easier knowing she was mending well. Soon after it was Théoden's turn to rise and excuse himself now that the hour was late and his guest had been well fed, however sleep not being his cause of need to leave. Before taking his leave, Théoden bid the Elf a fair night and to remain in the Riddermark for however long she may need to before she was recovered to depart for her journey; and it was then Duvaineth understood the meaning of Gandalf's riddle.

With a small smile, Duvaineth complied. "Certainly, my lord. I would not yet leave still bearing a wound that is but only ten days old."

Théoden was pleased to hear this. "Very good. I will leave you to continue in dining, if you still hunger or desire more to drink." He then looked to his nephew at his right, and simply gave a firm, short nod as he patted his shoulder as a silent farewell. Éomer returned the gesture, gripping his upper arm and then letting him depart. The king did not leave immediately. He sought a Man in the same room, who had seemed to have...simply appeared. Duvaineth could not remember seeing him, but that was no complaint. His very appearance made her feel ill; he was short and had dark hair and blue, snake-like eyes. He spoke quietly, and spared a smile to Théoden that was very sinister looking. It brought a shadow upon Duvaineth's heart, and it was then she realized she had not felt such troubling feelings for some time now.

"That is Grima Wormtongue." Éomer had moved sometime after his uncle left, and now sat reclined back in a chair next to her, slowly drinking his goblet of wine as he quietly mused. "He is the king's Chief Advisor. Very close in mine uncle's counsel he is. I daresay I take no comfort in it."

"I understand why, for he has a foul look upon him," Duvaineth responded, quietly.

"That is only but a small number as to what he possesses."

Duvaineth's eyes narrowed at his words. She turned to him. "How do you mean?"

Éomer paused – nay, he hesitated. He lifted his eyes to where his uncle still stood with Grima, and waited until both disappeared from the room to speak, although little did he desire for him to leave with that Man. "There is something about Grima Wormtongue that stills my very blood," Éomer began. "He possesses power. He holds not the power you may think. His words are as poison to your ears, yet wisely does he speak to Théoden King; but within those words is dark intent. By no means does he intend to help mine uncle to protect the Mark. I know not truly who or what he serves, whether for the good or for the ill, but he cares little for our lands.

"He lusts for my sister," Éomer said bitterly. "He has given me more than one cause to take a great dislike for him."

It was not appealing. Duvaineth wondered how comforted Éowyn felt under the king's roof with greedy eyes upon her. Mayhap not very well. In the midst of her musing Duvaineth must have made a face, for Éomer's laughter broke her from her reverie, and she looked at him with silent confusion. "Forgive me, Mistress Duvaineth," he said once his laughter had ceased. Even now he was continuing to struggle with his chuckles. "I should not have laughed. You had a vile look on your face as if you were about to retch."

But Duvaineth smiled. "I was feeling disgusted."

"Is that how all Elves look when they are disgusted?"

"Only when a terse, vile-looking Man lusts for a young woman."

Éomer roared with laughter, returning his goblet on the table. "Do the Elves not then lust?"

"It is quite different and requires an explanation of length," Duvaineth answered with a smile, "We love and do not lust. Our hearts remain to one and only one, and with that one we love forever even beyond death. Lust, to us, is an evil doing akin to that of murderous intent, and it is never performed. Yet we do not lack in passion, nor does our beauty, and to be desired by one is certainly a flattery more than it is to be lusted after by a hunched Man. However, Grima Wormtongue is in close counsel with the king. I am a mere guest. It is not wise to speak ill of the king or of those in his home, or those close to him. My opinion, whether good or ill, matters not."

She spoke wisely, her words good quality of which would not be doubted. Éomer thought not of her as evil as his men so readily had. Though her mark was questionable, he so far had not been given cause to distrust her; and his sister had spent more time with her than either he or his uncle had. She was a wise woman, young but sharp. Éowyn would have spoken of any mistrust she held for the Elf-maiden. As far as Éomer was concerned, Mistress Duvaineth intended no harm. Reclining back in his chair, his lips threatening to twitch into a smile he was not able to withhold at her words, Éomer again took a sip from his goblet and spoke. "This may very well be true, but no good can be spoken of Grima. Trust my word; my sister asked me to choose my words carefully when speaking of him, and I try despite the difficulty that comes hither from my other desires, but I do so for not my sake but hers. But seldom successful is it, nor does it stay my true opinion of him in my thoughts, of which I dare not utter before anyone."

"Your sister is wise. I understand your passion. You hold a love for the Mark. You wish it to be free from harm, and her king within that safety. I too would like to see that, but to all of Middle-earth and the homes of my kin that have been so darkly painted by this shadow."

"Then you and I fight for the very same cause. For our homes," Éomer said, and raised his goblet to her with a smile before taking a large sip.

The night grew on, and Éomer and Duvaineth remained in each other's companies. They spoke of many things, among which the growing darkness and forces of Mordor were heavily discussed. Duvaineth discovered the Horse-lord was well learnt on many things, and was thoroughly impressed by his knowledge of different lore and customs of Men, though he knew very little of her kin, an area he was very sore in he admitted; for hardly any good was spoken of the Elves, and little was it desired to learn furthermore of them – a topic Duvaineth promised him she would gladly tell him of during her stay, and in return he would educate her of his people.

Alas, soon the night was late and Duvaineth's energy was spent as a heavy wave of weariness was settling upon her. It was noticeable, and Éomer wished her not to be exhausted. She was still yet recovering from her hurts; sleep was a great necessity. "You should rest now, Mistress Duvaineth. You are not yet completely healed of your wound, and doubt I do not this evening alone has been a strain to you." His words were true. Duvaineth abided by his words, and bidding Éomer a goodnight, she rose from her seat; though Éomer insisted she not walk alone. A kind Man by the name of Gamling came forward and escorted her to her given bedchambers, a gesture that surprised Duvaineth, but she was grateful for it all the same. Sleep came easily to her that night, though strange she thought it. The past three nights had been restless for her, yet found sleep she did and dreamless they were. Duvaineth welcomed it despite the oddity, though she could not help but wonder. Her nights had indeed been dreamless, save for one or two, but haunting they were not, and she did not realize this until now. It was as if she were under some spell. But she welcomed it, for little in her years had sleep come to her.

* * *

"Your concern for my welfare is greatly appreciated, my lord. Yet I feel that is not part of your cause to have sought an audience with me, and asked me to join you for a walk."

"No, and although I wondered how you have been faring since last night when you dined with the king, it is not the reason of my cause, I am afraid." Éomer smiled wryly, an emotion he wore far too often. "There is a matter that concerns me. I am sure you know of what I speak, for I spoke heavily of it. Your eyes spoke of great interest in it more than your tongue allowed."

Duvaineth nodded slowly in understanding as she walked at his side. It was morning. The Sun was uncovered with only a few patches of clouds scattered in the blue sky. A gentle breeze came with the delightful weather. Duvaineth did not realize how much she had missed the fresh air until she felt the soft caress of the wind. "It concerns Grima Wormtongue, then."

"Indeed it does."

"And you trust me to confide in?"

"You speak very little, but wisely you do. I believe you see more to Grima than you show. The Men of the Mark may be wary and think ill of you, but I say you are not evil or possess dark magic or are a sorceress, however amusing the tales may be to mine ears." Éomer chuckled as he recalled the many nights on the fields of the Riddermark or a night in the tavern enjoying respite from his duties as he sat among his men, and listened to the stories about the Elves. Their "queen" within the forests was often spoken of, but not in a manner that would bring flattery. He thought it silly, every last tale he heard, and though he often wondered, he never made such cold, hard assumptions of a kindred he knew naught of. "If you were a servant of Sauron then you would have seen your baneful deed fulfilled come the moment you gained our trust, whatever your duty may be, or you would have extended not the gratitude and kindness to us that you have. Not even a servant of Sauron would be able to do so."

"Your words are true," Duvaineth said. "I would have killed the guards by now and had gone to do the same to your king were I a servant of Darkness. But such is an attempt of folly, and not very wise. I doubt not your uncle has many to protect him." Her eyes then grew dark. "That is not to say Grima Wormtongue does not have his own advantage. There may yet be some cloaked in the shadows listening to words," Duvaineth said, her voice light and soft as if it were what she feared, but little of it was shown in her eyes.

"I assure you, my lady, naught will be done if that be so." Éomer, too, spoke quietly. Whether he agreed to her words or not, or if he knew them to be true for surely she did, Duvaineth did not know. But he was kind with his words. "I am the king's nephew. Grima would not dare speak ill against me or Éowyn, not over a matter of my opinion of him. My uncle knows me truly and well as if he is my father. Grima knows this rather well. He may seek to hear the words of my tongue and others but he would dare not to go before the king and speak so vilely of his family, nor any guest. However," Éomer weighed heavily, "I fear many a thing, of which I cannot utter so openly."

"It is why you asked me to walk with you." Duvaineth now understood. She smiled. "Tell me, then, if you wish, for I am rather curious about Grima Wormtongue."

Éomer spoke of many things to her, and all that could never be spoken only in fear there were spies among the Meduseld. Of all he spoke, he spoke of Grima. "He speaks ill. He is no fool; Grima conceals his meaning well and coats his words with a seeping dark sweetness, but there is no good from his tongue. I worry for the king. I wonder if Grima is an influence upon his mind...and how deeply." When he finished, Duvaineth contemplated heavily on his words. She knew Éomer very little, but he was a trustworthy Man, she deemed, honest and caring of his home. Duvaineth did not doubt his words. She remembered Grima from last night and how he appeared. The way he smiled at the king was not right. She knew Éomer's words to be true, and it concerned her just as it did him.

"Alas!" Éomer sighed. "I should not speak so grimly. The shadow that covers this earth is enough to bring grief unto our hearts. There are yet still times of joy, one that may be brought to you."

Duvaineth glanced up in confusion at his gesture. They had come to the stables; it did not clear her confusion but only heightened it. Éomer said nothing. He merely led her inside and down the very brief hall where they were surrounded by a great number of horses in their pens. That was when Duvaineth saw her. A wide smile broke across her features. "Gilroch!" she breathed and rushed forward, coming to the pen that her beloved horse was stationed in. Greeted with a gentle nuzzle, Duvaineth laughed happily and tenderly pressed a kiss on the top of her head. "Oh, roch melui! How I have missed you so. I am glad to see you safe."

Éomer watched not far away. He tilted his head to the side, observing the touching moment between the Elf and her horse and was astonished by it. There was a strong love for the steed in Duvaineth's heart; it showed very plainly in her eyes that which shone brightly with tenderness. He had never before beheld such love for an animal in one's eyes, not even in the eyes of his own men. "You look upon your steed as if she is your very soul," Éomer remarked in a murmur. "It is astonishing."

"We hold animals and nature very dear to our hearts," Duvaineth said as she looked up, a smile gracing her lips. "That love is endless. Though the earth is trampled and brought to ruin by ash and shadow, and a great evil, our love will never falter. Such is our love to animals." She returned her gaze back to Gilroch. Her smile widened and she stroked her mane. "Gilroch has been my friend for many years. She is my best friend."

"She is a fine steed indeed," Éomer said with a smile.

"Indeed she is," Duvaineth said softly. "And she has borne me through many dangers, faithful and true. I could never ask any more of her."

Éomer's smile did not leave him. He turned away and silently let her be. The day was young still and the Elf had been bedridden for nearly two weeks, the world veiled to her and parted from her dear companion, and he dared not keep her away from her steed any longer, nor keep her locked in her chambers. Glancing behind him one last time before he disappeared from her sight, Éomer noticed how her spirits appeared to have been lifted the moment they had stepped outside from the Golden Hall. He supposed even Elves needed fresh air every once in a while.


	8. An Poisonous Tongue

Recovering from a poisonous wound was hardly pleasant, something Duvaineth desired not to encounter again in the time to come. Yet it was not the first occasion she had suffered such a wound. If it were possible, the recovery was just as long, tedious, and painful as she last remembered it to be. Much rest was required and the consistent sipping of water and Holy Basil, though it was most largely needed after dining with Théoden King that night. It had strained her body and although she hid her discomfort rather well, come the morrow when Éowyn returned to her, Duvaineth was unable to hide it any further. It did not linger long and the moment she helped herself to Holy Basil she began to feel better, physically and in fëa. Soon, however, it was time for Duvaineth to strengthen her limbs; a strenuous task, indeed, and none too pleasing, and one where she needed the assistance of the herbed water more than she had need of it in the past weeks she had been in Rohan.

Éowyn, who had been great company and had become a good friend to her, could not conceal her concern, yet all the same, amusement grew greater than the concern at the quiet curses of Elvish Duvaineth uttered. "You must be careful in your travels, my friend. I hesitate to trust you will be so fortunate when next you receive a wound the likes you now heal from."

Despite the lethargy from her efforts, Duvaineth was amused by her words and chuckled. "Surely now I shall, though the when next I stand against a great number of Orcs and Wargs, I would like to avoid having a sword be run through me!"

"I do believe it would save you much trouble," Éowyn laughed, and soon Duvaineth was joining her.

"Indeed!"

Lord Éomer remained not a stranger. He brought good company and often sat with Duvaineth and his sister in the evening when the king was not present for supper. Often was Éomer absent from the Meduseld, dutifully abiding by the commands of his king, whether he be within or away from Edoras. Yet always he did not fail in harboring concern for Duvaineth and would come to see her upon his return, for just as his sister, he too held great concern for the Elf. Nigh a month had since then passed marking her arrival to the Riddermark, and Duvaineth was now near to full recovery. Although she felt well and had made a few appearances outside her chamber in the Golden Hall, regaining her full strength was a slow achievement.

Yet not all wished her well, nor took joy in her presence in the Mark.

"But my lord, she is a stranger to our lands, one of a People least welcomed and little desired to be seen. A most peculiar one, she is."

"She offers no harm and has but extended kindness and gratitude to me and my household. I hardly think her wounds a mere act of deceit."

"Surely, my lord, there may be a measure of—"

Théoden came to an abrupt stop halfway on the steps leading to his throne and turned to his advisor. He bore no happiness hearing his Advisor's words. "Trust you not in my judgment, Grima?" he asked, irritation light in his tone.

He was quick to come to a cessation, closing his mouth and unknowingly cowering back. "Of course not, my lord," Grima Wormtongue stammered. "Your judgment is just and well and true, and there is no other whom I would trust as fiercely as I do you. I simply become concerned for my king when strangers to our lands walk in his home."

"Then trust in my word. I ask not much from you of that," Théoden said. "Mistress Duvaineth is a guest in the Mark and in my home, and I will not suffer it spoken that Théoden King's guests are ill-treated."

"Yes, my lord," Grima answered, quickly. "Certainly, she will be treated properly and respectfully, of course, my lord."

"Good, then." Théoden turned away from him again as he returned to his throne. "Ensure it is done."

Standing before the king Grima smiled and accepted his command. When he turned his back to his liege and left his presence, however, a deep sneer shadowed his features. He liked the Elf no greater than he did the king's nephew. There was something ill about her. She was strange, one he had not quite seen before. Quiet; dark eyes that refused admittance to emotions, and her words wise, but darkly and mysteriously so. She was a threat indeed. Surely she hid something. Mayhap he could quicken her departure from the Mark.

Grima smiled slyly. Yes. And he knew just how….

Now left to his peace, Théoden King sighed deeply in relief. He reclined back in his throne and relaxed his tense muscles. The attendances to matters of concern had been many as of late, and the time allotted to breathe less. Théoden eagerly accepted the respite that had been given to him with gladness, for seldom was his time. The heavy concerns of his realm weighed on him like a growing shadow; time slipped past him darkly and quickly, but such was the wont of the World and he little knew for how long he could fain indulge in pleasantries of being relieved of his council. Gladly he took advantage of it.

"You have at last been rid of your irate advisor, I see. Take heart, my lord! You have time to rest from your heavy toils."

A wide smile stretched over the weary king's features. "Indeed. I am taking joy in what has been given, but you bring greater joy, even against the longest respite I may have from the troubles of my land. You have returned from battle and are unharmed. Truly, I could neither ask nor receive greater. Welcome back, my dear nephew."

Éomer smiled and paused before his uncle at the steps of the dais to bow. "Thank you, my lord," he said. "The battle was short in its days compared to the many weeks I have spent on the field of war, yet dreadfully long it still felt. I am glad to be home and to come before my king."

"How fared the battle?"

"We were triumphant over the Orcs and slew the rest after their cowardly retreat. Alas, our victory was not achieved without a cost. Several men fell, but bravely and well they fought. We gave them a proper burial."

"Alas for the fallen," Théoden sighed. "Death weaves its snare so thickly in times of war. Men leave their loved ones, their promise of return but a bittersweet taste in the cold caress of the wind. They fought as true Men of the Mark, with honor and for their land and people. Could a king ask for more than what is so graciously given to him? I say not."

"No, indeed. Nor could I ever ask for a greater display of valor to draw swords with," Éomer agreed. "They will be remembered for their fealty henceforth, and all those who fall in service to the War, for they are my brothers and dearly will I miss them."

Théoden said nothing. He rose in silence from his throne and turned to the wall, but naught came from his lips. A fire burned within his heart. A bright flame that burned fiercer and brighter come every new beat of his heart. He felt saddened. Angered. Yet also compassionate and loving – a vault of emotions that had long sat in quiet solitude as war threatened his lands. War and death were too frequently set against him, ruin wrought in their wake, driving his people into grief and despair, and sitting so heavily upon his mind and heart; never staying their force nor leaving him even if only for a brief respite. But no longer. He could do little to take away the sorrow that had beset his people, but he could ease it; he could offer comfort that was but a faint memory, and though it would only be short-lived for mayhap an evening or two, joy as well.

"Let us remember them tonight, then, and go onward. Let us honor them and celebrate our victory, and drink to what hope remains in the heart of the Mark." Théoden turned around and faced his nephew, offering a smile. "Tonight, all who dwell in Edoras will come to feast and quench their hearts' desire, and may they hear songs that will uplift their spirits; and may my words give them a measure of hope, even if it is small. Let it be, then, if so; but they will have hope. And let it be tonight that they will know the love their king bears for them, and feel neither lost nor forgotten."

"That is just, my lord," Éomer replied, smiling. "Your people will be grateful for such great hospitality from their king. I will send word to the Master of Ceremonies so preparations might be made."

Ere Éomer could turn away and carry out his king's words, he was distracted from his orders when his uncle spoke again. "And send word to Lady Éowyn, and see that Mistress Duvaineth knows she is welcome to come, if she feels well. I would loathe for our guest to be denied the opportunity to indulge in the feast. After suffering a grievous wound I daresay she well deserves it."

"It shall be done. I will see to it at once," Éomer promised him. He then paused for a brief moment as his memory was rekindled of Duvaineth, of their meeting and farewell ere Éomer left for battle against the Orcs. He wondered how her recovery fared since he last saw her. "How is the Mistress Duvaineth faring? It has been some time since I last saw her; not since my departure, I do not think. And that was nigh seven weeks ago."

"Ah!" Théoden said with a smile. "Mistress Duvaineth is doing well – much better, I should rather say. She has begun the last toils of her recovery to regain strength in her muscles and walking. She tires quickly from it but has improved greatly each session. Éowyn suspects she will soon be on her feet without difficulty."

"That is well news!" Éomer said delightfully. "I am glad to hear this. Let us hope her recovery henceforth will be swift and she may feel well on her feet once more. But now I take my leave to allow you your peace. I will carry out your order for this coming evening, and Mistress Duvaineth shall receive a warm invitation to the feast."

With that, Éomer bowed deeply and departed. But when he came to the entrance of the hall an ill feeling fell upon him, stopping him in his tracks. He knew the feeling well – mayhap too well. Éomer turned, and hiding behind a pillar in the hall of the king was Grima, his face twisted in a sly smile. Éomer swore he heard a snicker come from his mouth. Undoubtedly he had been spying on the king and his meeting with his nephew. It angered Éomer. He clenched his jaw and strode forward. His knowledge of Grima's presence had been unnoticed – until now, as he made no attempt to conceal his footsteps. Grima raised his head and a look of fear entered his eyes as he quickly backed away from him, but it did little and he found his back pressed harshly against the pillar with his shirt fisted tightly in the Third Marshall's grasp.

"Pinning your ears to the king's quiet discourse, are we?" Éomer spoke dryly, a tinge of bitter sarcasm on his tongue. "I thought you had more dignity, Wormtongue."

Grima glowered at him. "I think only of the king's wellbeing, much unlike one who claims to serve Théoden King so, speaking of war and death upon his beloved land."

"He sent me forth with the duty to defend our lands, and readily and gladly did I do the will of the king. I doubt you would have placed your very life before the Riddermark to save her from an onslaught, least of all to serve your king."

"You speak terrible lies!" Grima exclaimed. "I would do anything my king would ask of me. But you see, Lord Éomer, I am but a lowly servant to my lord; a mere advisor to proffer counsel. I am no warrior. The king knows this. Surely you are aware of this yourself?"

"You are capable of many things, Grima. Surprised I would not be if it is discovered you are familiar with a blade," Éomer answered dryly.

"It would be for the king's safety, if that be so, for verily can those who dwell in his House not be easily trusted. Even those close to him may wish harm to him."

His words were dark, wrought from an ill tongue. It tempered not Éomer's anger. He tightened his grip on Grima, speaking through gritted teeth. "Speak with care when utter you such accusations. While there may be some who speak with fairness, there are others who are not as well veiled. None who are dearly close to the king would dare harm him."

"Know you this with certainty?" Grima bore that sickly smile of his. "Anyone can mask themselves, whether poorly or excellently, and may think the darkest thoughts. None would know. Ere our migration here, many a time was brother against brother, their minds and hearts full of greed and envy and ambition to rule…and even nephew against uncle."

"Snake! Speak not to me with your black tongue," Éomer hissed. Out of anger he again pushed him back against the pillar, letting him go. "Always has my loyalty been to Théoden King and him only. Never have I served another or showed a lack of respect or gratitude; never have I spoke against him or disobeyed his will. You know this very well, Wormtongue."

"And yet even the most faithful can fall from favor, can they not?" Grima smirked.

"And I give you an oath here and now: So long as I draw breath no harm will come to the king, nor should I ever think kindly of you or bear likeness to the very mention of your name. Those who dare harm the king shall not succeed; I will end their pursuit before it is even begins, and my sword will not be kind to them. It would be best if you remember that."

"Fret not, my lord," Grima said, mockingly. "I shall not forget your words of kindness." His eyes narrowed. "I shall not."

Éomer said nothing. He tilted his head downward, his eyes dark and glowering. Then he wordlessly turned about and briskly strode away in hard steps, his temper teetering to the edge, his anger great. Would that the words of his sister did not echo loudly in his head, Grima would no more be a bother. Alas, such actions would not be wise. Unfortunately. Now Éomer was beset with a greater concern than he had before, and wondered how truly hard Grima was trying to beset his dark tongue upon his uncle's mind. It mattered not. Théoden King's love and loyalty was to the Riddermark and his family, Éomer told himself. He would hear none of Grima's words speaking against whom the king loved, and he knew that. It would be well that he remembered it, as well.

Yet Éomer was still concerned for his uncle and the influence Grima was or may have upon the King of the Mark. He doubted not his uncle's strength and will against such evil, yet it could not banish the fear for his uncle's wellbeing. Perhaps Théoden King's son had his own opinion.

"Need you assistance, Mistress Duvaineth?"

"You are kind, my lady. I am well. Thank you."

"You have sat like such for some time now."

"I am contemplating."

"Of?"

"How to move myself from my bedding."

Éowyn laughed softly. "Come. Let me help you." She went over to the struggling Elf and gently took her arms and slowly helped her to her feet. Although the movement was slow and mindful of the wound Duvaineth still bore, it still yet inflicted a sharp pain throughout her body, to which she winced at. Despite this, Duvaineth smiled.

"Thank you," she said to her. "I now feel little pain, but movement is still yet strenuous. I fear I am not quite fully healed yet."

"No, but you have healed remarkably well in the time you have been here," Éowyn said. "I believe it shall not be long now before you are well recovered and on your feet without difficulty."

"Indeed!" Éomer smiled from where he stood near the doorway. "You look well, much better than when I last saw you upon my departure."

Éowyn gasped. "Éomer!" she cried. "You have returned!" Before her brother had the chance to open his mouth, she sprinted forward in quick steps and threw her arms gleefully around him. Éomer was quick to catch his sister in his arms and hold her close, gladly accepting her embrace and chuckling softly. From where Duvaineth stood she watched the touching moment unfold, a slight smile gracing her lips. Such love and adoration that a sister held for her brother, and he her. Such loyalty. It was not a sight she often gazed upon. But it was not often that her feet treaded where such was visible to her eyes. And although the sight was touching to watch and filled her with a strange sense of happiness she could not describe, sorrow also filled her heart; sorrow and dread as a well-branded memory stung her mind.

_"You disobeyed my command I entrusted you with, child."_

_"I regret it not, nor shall forgiveness be uttered from my lips."_

_"Then you shall suffer."_

It was Éomer's voice that broke her from her dark reverie. "I have, and unharmed as I promised you," the Rohír said to his sister with a smile as they parted. His eyes then lifted to the silent Elf and smiled again. "And I have come with an announcement from the king that he wishes to be delivered to our guest."

"Indeed?" Duvaineth inquired curiously. "I will gladly hear the words of Théoden King, if he so wishes for me to personally receive them."

"And I will gladly relay the message," Éomer replied. "Tonight Théoden King wishes to provide a feast here in his home and welcome all in Edoras to come, to eat and drink and sing to their heart's content. He wishes to give hope to his people who have for so long sat underneath a dark shadow. He wishes you to come as well, Mistress Duvaineth, to come and unweigh with his people, for long and heavy you have burdened your wound, and verily you deserve these pleasantries as he offers his people."

"That is most kind and gracious of him, of which he has extended nothing but such to me all through my stay in Edoras, for which I am truly thankful. I accept his invitation and will certainly extend my most heartfelt gratitude to him this evening." Duvaineth smiled. "Thank you, Lord Éomer. It is an honor."

"Your words will be taken to heart and deeply appreciated, yet Théoden King asks not of it," Éomer said. "He seeks only the comfort of those whom he shelters, and seeks not praise or recognition."

"And yet he so rightly deserves it," Duvaineth said softly. "Yet it is very admirable in a king all the same, indeed, to which gives me all the more cause to extend my gratitude to him."

"And he will be gladdened to hear such," Éomer said with a smile. Admittedly, he was surprised by her words, but pleasantly so. He could not remember a time ere he was forced to pause at one and simply contemplate their words. She spoke of kindness and gratitude, and…grace. Such has not been given so freely and so graciously to the king in the manner that was given only a moment ago in some time. Were the Elves truly so thankful? Or was Duvaineth a meager exception?

"It will be an honor to have you join us tonight, Mistress Duvaineth," he continued. "I hope you will enjoy this night as mine uncle hopes his people will take delight in it."

"Undoubtedly I shall, Lord Éomer," Duvaineth assured. "Undoubtedly I shall."

The Golden Hall was quite busy for the remainder of the day. All of Edoras had been invited to come and feast in the King's Hall, and there was much to do with so little time. Cooks and servants rushed to prepare meals and the Hall for the coming evening. Anyone who drew a single breath was put to work with preparations; even Éomer himself was heavily occupied with the affairs, though little experienced he was in the area, he would admit. He helped how he could, however; even if it was not much. He was a Man, a Third Marshall and commander on the fields on war. Partaking in affairs concerning an event was not his strongest sector, nor did he desire it to be. Battle was his expertise, and poorly did he feel in his uncle's home preparing his hall for a feast. Yet it did not all go to waste, for Théoden found it quite entertaining, and after some time Éomer was able to find humor in it himself.

Aside from the hustle and bustle in the halls of the king, Éowyn too was busy with her own preparations for herself and Duvaineth. A great amount of her time was spent in seeking proper clothing for her friend to wear. Having arrived in the King's Hall in the grim state she had, Duvaineth had very little to wear, and none of it was appropriate before a king, least of all presenting herself to a feast of which he had so graciously planned for his people. Duvaineth hardly thought it proper or kind of her, and so Éowyn spent some time sorting through dresses, a time spent Duvaineth wished she not waste. The woman minded not. Éowyn was more than happy to help her new friend, and Duvaineth being a guest in her uncle's home, she would not allow the Elf to be dressed and presented so poorly. "A guest in my lord's home is an honored guest, no matter who they are," Éowyn told her. "They will not be wrongfully treated or ill equipped. That is his command, and so it shall always be in the hall of the king."

"Even so." Duvaineth watched the woman as she sorted through a variety of Rohirric dresses. "I ask that you do not trouble yourself so on my account. I will take gladness in what is given to me. The dresses that lay before you are indeed beautiful and fitted well for the eyes of a king." She briefly paused and chuckled as she again spoke, "Surely the attire I will be given will suit me far better than what I have now. You need not worry."

Éowyn let out a soft laugh and turned to her. A light shone in her eyes, a light Duvaineth remembered Éomer describing to her that had not been seen for many months. "Indeed. However, despite your concern, I mind it not at all. But it is important as well. You are a guest here under my care, and as a friend, also. It would be my absolute pleasure to ensure you are dressed well for this evening at the very least. It has been some time since I last had the company of a female. I assure you, Duvaineth, it is truly not a bother."

Her smile and enthusiasm was contagious. Duvaineth could not contain her own smile. She nodded. "Very well, Éowyn. If you so insist, then I shall not persist otherwise!"

"Wonderful! Now, then. Try this." Éowyn brought over a dress and carefully laid it on the bed. "I do not know if it will fit. You have a small frame and it may be too big on you, but you may certainly try."

Duvaineth tilted her head to the side as her eyes scanned the dress lying before her. She reached out her hand and gingerly touched the sleeve, and allowed the soft fabric to slip through her fingers. It was a simple dress, dyed in a light shade of blue and woven with soft velvet and silk. The sleeves were white and long and wide; golden embroidery decorated the stoop collar. It hardly seemed as large as Éowyn feared it to be. Granted, it was nothing like the dresses she often wore in Imladris; elegant dresses for the Elf-maidens. To the Rohirrim, however, it was indeed a dress of elegance and grace just as the clothing the Elf-maidens wore was of the same virtues. It was far simpler than Duvaineth was used to, and she very much liked it. "I believe, Éowyn, this shall do very nicely."

Evening quickly arrived. The day had been filled with much activity in the Golden Hall, and many preparations had been made and successfully completed by the time the Sun was beginning to set. It had been a long and difficult and strenuous day; a great amount of food had been cooked to feed well over a thousand mouths continuously; tables and chairs were brought out and set up; and several bards had arrived to the king's home and made their own preparations to entertain the guests. The servants and cooks were spent of their energy, but well indeed did they perform their duties and proudly presented their work to their lord. All was prepared, and soon the time came for the feast. As hoped, many came, yet the forlorn shadow casted on their faces could not be hidden. Men and women – even children. How greatly did it shatter Théoden's heart. And then he remembered.

This night was for them. The feast was the very reason he offered it freely to his people. They were his reason. Saddened and oppressed, a dark shadow hanging above their heads as the war raged ever on, forbidding a time of joy. But not this day. Nay, it shall not be tonight. Tonight, it shall be different. His people shall not linger in despair.

Duvaineth was only lightly surprised when she entered the great hall. She had heard many a times of the love and loyalty Théoden King held for his people, and in return was beloved by them; and verily she expected his people to eagerly accept his invitation to dine in his halls. However, she had failed to realize the numbers as well. Indeed the tales had been true. Éowyn, who stood at her side, then gestured for her to follow. "Come," she beckoned. "Undoubtedly mine uncle would like to see you ere the feast begins."

"Of course." Duvaineth nodded and followed the woman through the thick crowd. They came before the throne of the king; there Théoden King stood upon the steps of the dais, and next to him in heavy discussion was Éomer. It was not until Éowyn and Duvaineth approached that they noticed their presence. A wide smile stretched across Théoden's lips. "Ah, my beautiful niece. I was beginning to wonder where you were. And look! We have our guest before us tonight! You look well, Mistress Duvaineth."

"Thank you, my lord. I feel well, as well. I must thank you for the endless kindness you have extended unto me. I am honored to be here."

"And I am honored to have you here."

"Indeed!" came a voice behind her. But it was not a voice that brought her joy, and instead sent a cold shiver down her spine. Duvaineth turned and standing in front of her was Grima Wormtongue. "Welcome, Mistress Duvaineth. I am…pleased to see you are faring well."

Duvaineth did not miss how Éowyn seemed to have shrunk back, nor did she ignore how closer Éomer now seemed. She forced a smile. "Thank you, my lord. Forgive me, however, I do not believe we have met." It had been pleasant until tonight.

"You may call me Grima Wormtongue," the Man answered her. "I am the advisor to the king, close in his counsel, and I see to his affairs and wellbeing." His eyes narrowed slightly at her. Dark was his gaze, but his emotions were hidden well.

Quite so," Duvaineth agreed. "Such a position is very honorable and admirable, but only very few may carry their duty well. It can be tiring, I do not doubt."

"Yet rewarding as well." Grima smiled. It was menacing and spoke of ill boding, just as the night when she first caught a glimpse of him in the presence of the king. His words spoke even more darkly than his smile. He spoke not the true meaning of his words. It comforted her not.

"I am certain it is."

"Tell me, Mistress Duvaineth, for I am rather curious and have not had the pleasure of your company. How came you to pass through the Riddermark?"

"A wound, Master Grima."

"That was your cause?"

"In essence," Duvaineth responded. "All through my journey I traveled south and came to Enedwaith nigh a week after. I intended not to pass through the Riddermark nor did I hold little desire to, truthfully I will say to you. My intention was to continue northward and leave Enedwaith. Alas, fate was not with me that day as I was beset against a number of Orc-riders and their beasts, and was forced to flee into the Riddermark."

"An unfortunate defeat followed you thereafter as well. Grim the memory must be for you, I am sure. Yet you were desirous still to avoid our lands. Why so? Does this fair realm trouble you so deeply?"

Duvaineth now understood. "Trouble me? Nay. Our People are strangers to each other, are they not? The Men of your lands would have had no desire to lay their eyes upon an Elf walking in their land they so dearly love. They think my kin unkind just as mine thinks yours strange, and either would seldom venture to share discourse. I would not have had traveled into the Riddermark unless no other choice was before me. And I speak with no disrespect, but truthfully.

He had lost his own battle. Grima forced a smile. "Of course, Mistress Duvaineth. We are wary of strangers going to and fro so suddenly in our lands. Times are dark. Ever had we the need to be watchful, as I doubt not your own kin do. You make me wonder, however—"

"You wonder quite frequently as of late, Grima," Éomer remarked, interrupting him. He raised an eyebrow.

"I am but a curious Man, Lord Éomer. You know this well to be true."

"Indeed, I do," Éomer murmured, ignoring the look his sister shot him.

"Take not my words to heart, though truly I am a Man of curiosity," Grima said to the Elf. "You are one of few words."

Duvaineth tilted her head to the side. "I do not understand."

"It is simple, is it not, Mistress Duvaineth? Several weeks heretofore I recall you indulging in the comfort of the king's table. Verily you had little to say, save a lengthy tale. Such an anomaly it was for the lack of words you speak. Yet I wonder and am disquieted for our eminent king. You act is if you hide something."

His voice, whereas ere had been quiet admist his conversation with the Elf, was suddenly louder, though it could not quite bellow above the loud chatter in that echoed in the Hall. However, it was loud enough to draw attention of those nearby and within earshot. Many, but not all, eyes turned and were upon Duvaineth now. Curious eyes; forlorn…wariness. Duvaineth did not respond, however, and Grima took his chance to pounce her. "Has your tongue now been rendered silent in full or do you indeed bring ill tidings to our weary king who is burdened already with many harrowing affairs?"

"Stay your tongue!" Éomer snarled. Would that he was not in the presence of so many.

"Nay, my lord," Duvaineth spoke softly. "I take no offense. You worry much over very little things, Grima Wormtongue," she then said, and suddenly her voice was deep very much alike the night when she dined with Théoden and his family. "I am no more than a mere guest in your king's home, and I pray to have done so with all humility, and I seek naught but to heal from my wound and extend my gratitude unto Théoden King for all he has done for me when easily he could have done naught. I am one of very few words, yes; it is true, but I assure you I bear no ill tidings to your king or to his people, and would dare not allow the mere thought to cross my mind." Duvaineth paused and took a deep breath, and smiled as she spoke her last words to the unsettling Man that would end his game. "My kin are not so ill-mannered as to treat their host so unfaithfully. And I shall not begin to bear such manners. But your concern for your king is most admirable."

If Grima did not intend to show how disappointed he was in his affair, then he failed utterly, for his face fell into a deep frown and his eyes filled with a great shadow of anger. Before he could open his mouth to retaliate, Duvaineth turned her back to him and he slipped away into the crowds, the wobbling embarrassed Man whom he was, and she smiled at Théoden who stood before her. "If it is well with you, my lord," she said, "I would very much like to enjoy this gracious feast you have offered to us."


	9. Urgent Departure

**Author's Note: Eeep! What is this? A new chapter? Why, yes it is! I apologize SINCERELY for the lack of update. For a while I struggled with my inspiation and was met with real life difficulties that hindered my creative path for a bit. And then - BOOM! - back! I will begin regular weekly updates now. Right now I have a few chapters already written and ready to be send off to my editor, so you guys are about to get some very interesting chapters coming your way! ;) Stay tuned! And now, I would like to give my thanks to three lovely ladies, two of which who so kindly reviewed!**

**BlondiezHere and EverleighBain - Thank you so much for your feedback! It brings me joy to know that you enjoyed my story, and especially that you commented on Duvaineth and her character. Her character is still developing and I am always looking out to see how well it is playing out, so any comments about her character and how it appears is very valuable! Also, thank you EverleighBain for your encouragement that I should let lose and little and let my own writing style shine in the midst of Tolkien's. I believe your words to be very true and I will try to do so!**

**And last but not least, Gwedhiel, my most lovely and amazing beta-reader! What would I be without you? Certainly not very far. You are the reason this story is even possible and the progression of my writing. Thank you ever so much for putting up with me.**

**Please let me know your thoughts of the chapter! Reviews are loved. Constructive criticism is worshiped.**

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Silence had long filled the room. All whom had come to the Golden Hall were now gathered, awaiting the words of their king. Grima Wormtongue had long left their presence. Where he may have stumbled to was unknown, but it was of little concern to Duvaineth; the uneasiness that had shadowed her was now gone and this evening she would make every effort to enjoy the gracious givings of Rohan's king. From where Duvaineth stood, she watched as Éowyn went forth to Théoden on the dais, a golden goblet in hand. With Théoden stood two Men on either side of him, one of whom was Éomer and the other was a Man Duvaineth had not yet seen. Much akin to Éomer, he was tall and his stature broad. Both Men wore elaborate and fine attire decorated with gold embroidery, though the unknown Man wore a finer tunic than Éomer and that was greatly similar to Théoden's own.

His heir, perchance? Duvaineth wondered.

Théoden accepted the goblet from his niece with a benevolent smile. She joined her brother's side on the steps and Théoden then turned to the crowd. His smile still firmly planted on his lips, he uplifted the goblet before the people and spoke in a loud but gentle voice, "Tonight, we honor those who so bravely fell protecting our lands, for rightly do their valor and strength and memorably exceeding virtue deserve such recognition. I can offer you no greater words of comfort than I can offer myself, but this I shall say unto you: There is always hope. When the day is dark and all lights seem all but spent, there is hope. When the thick gale of shadow and cold despair linger above us, there is hope. We shall not dwell in sadness that so glibly smothers our hearts. Your king loves you and tonight, he bestows that love, care, and compassion unto your hearts. Eat. Drink. Find joy in dance and song, and find your peace. For, truly, I pray your hearts will know it this night."

The forlorn silence the Golden Hall had erstwhile lingered with was somewhat allayed by the king's words. He lifted his goblet, toasting to the dead, and blessed the coming feast. Those who held a goblet in their hand raised them in the air and chorused a loud "Hail!" before drinking from their cups. Among them, Duvaineth was quiet but failed not to honor the fallen by raising her own goblet. As she brought it to her lips and tasted the sweet wine, her eyes briefly closed and she murmured a silent prayer to the dead. When she opened her eyes and lowered her cup, Duvaineth discovered she was nearly alone; most of the Rohirrim had left to accept their king's generous offer to dine, leaving the Elf standing a pace or two away from the dais. Théoden remained there, accompanied by his niece and that Man, along with a small number of his council. But Éomer was no longer there and she wondered where he had gone off to. The thought was brief, however, for she soon heard light footsteps approaching from her left and she needed not to look to know who it was.

"I must commend you, Mistress Duvaineth," spoke the person, his voice quiet. Light amusement danced his tone.

Duvaineth forewent replying for a moment. She merely smiled, and judging by the Man's light chuckle, she gathered he had noticed it. "You are kind, my lord, but may I inquire why so?"

"An unpleasant encounter with Grima is no more a pleasantry than seeing a mere glimpse of him. His dark tongue would dare test anyone's will, and verily does he endeavor to set others against you. Even your own mind."

"Grima Wormtongue is a fine adder. He seeks to shadow hearts and bend the thoughts of the innocent with his tongue," Duvaineth replied. "You speak truly. I doubt not your words, for mine eyes alone saw such, nor did I miss his eagerness to question mine intentions before your king in his halls."

"Grima probes all who come before the king, even me and the king's own son, but very few does he approach with his poisonous tongue. And even fewer possess the will to stand against his black words, though they stand innocent," Éomer said solemnly. "My apologies that you suffered so while a guest in mine uncle's home."

"Pray spare yourself such compunction, Lord Éomer, though your concern is kind. Grima's attempts proved to be a wiseacre's folly at the very beginning. He believes me to possess some measure of dark intent within my heart. But I assure you, my lord, that I have no such desire in my heart to commit ill deeds upon your king or his realm. Doings of such are unheard of and unnatural for my people to do. It is simply not in the nature of Elves to stir such hate or to bear such evil."

"You have given us no cause to believe otherwise. Greatly do I doubt the ill that is spoken against you, for many a time I have seen naught but grace and kindness extended to my home, and to our king. I do not think you to be evil as some may believe you and your people to be."

Duvaineth smiled slightly. It was small but there, having long been hidden since her encounter with Wormtongue. "I may be accounted as young by the wont of my kin, but never have I heard any tale told nor spun of an Elf to be evil. Nor has one ever been corrupted by words of the Shadow, whether wrought by the tongues of beings Mortal or Immortal. We are not faultless, nor are we without shame and the guilt of spilling innocent blood in the bygone Ages of this World, but never has any servant of Darkness nor Sauron himself bent Elves into dark creatures to do his bidding, at least none that could still walk free from such a damnable deed. And that, my lord, is a thing I declare my kin may justly pride themselves in."

"Indeed?" Éomer inquired curiously. "Alas for such false rumors, then. Little is spoken of your people. They are but mere tales recited and embellished around campfires well into the night, but they are still rather unfavorably relayed. Yet such stories have long been in existence." His eyes glowed with a speckle of sadness. The Elf next to him had been nothing but kind and gracious to his king and a true friend to his lonely and oppressed sister. But the rumors spoken of the Elves were more forged than true, he suspected; that they were capable of a great and dark power, unkind and cold and uncaring. Éomer had yet to see anything that evidenced such tales, yet there was little of the warm hospitality Duvaineth has received from the king beyond his uncle's great halls. Instead, cold gazes and dark murmurs greeted her wherever she walked.

But Duvaineth shook her head. "Nay. Do not be dismayed, for times have indeed grown dark. My people are as wary of their road and those who tread it, and those who wander in their lands just as your own people are wary of mine. I fault them not for it." She paused to turn her head slightly. Her eyes glanced around, lastly falling upon Théoden, who proudly watched his people with obvious joy. "Understandable it is for one to be concerned for the wellbeing of their king, even to be wary of whosoever comes forth before him. This I shall say, however..." Duvaineth returned her gaze to Éomer and her eyes, unlike before, held no light within them. There was a dark shadow in them; a forlorn look and one that Éomer took not lightly. "It is no official concern or duty of a mere advisor to see to the king's safety, nor to be ever so watchful of who may come near him. Heed my words, Lord Éomer. Grima Wormtongue intends ill fortune upon your uncle and his lands, and beneath his shrew smile is a very evil intent. Be ever so cautious but mindful of your words as well. If he indeed has malevolent intent as you yourself believe, then he may be capable of unkind influences. Those who love you may then come to despise you."

Her words were pressing. Éomer took a moment to contemplate them. Though grim as they were, there was also truth in them. "Do you believe the king will yield to his words?"

Duvaineth hesitated. An answer was not needed, for Éomer already knew. "My lord—"

"I beseech you, Mistress Duvaineth."

Silence fell between them, but it was brief. "I doubt not the strength of Théoden King, but one can only withstand the might of lethal words such as the likes of Grima's tongue for so long."

Éomer nodded slightly. It was unbeknown to him, but his hand crept to the hilt of his blade tucked in its scabbard and gripped it tightly. He said nothing and for a long while he merely stood quietly as he watched the feast. To say he was at ease would be quite untrue. His shoulders were stiff, a plain indication of the tension lining his frame. His eyes that had erstwhile looked upon her with a gentle and kind gaze were now hardened, and he seemed to be lost in deep thought. But just as the tension was there, it was then gone, and at length, he turned to Duvaineth and smiled, giving her a bow. "Thank you for your company, Mistress Duvaineth, and your discourse as well. Let us not dwell on such ill tidings tonight. You have suffered an unfriendly wound for now a great while. Undesirable tidings have long been upon your shoulders, and in a plentiful amount I do not doubt. Let us do as mine uncle bid his people, for verily, we too deserve it."

"I believe that, Lord Éomer," Duvaineth intoned with a smile, "is a fine suggestion."

The night waned with chatter and laughter, and there was much singing and dancing, but Duvaineth could not find her own delight. She watched from afar, settled against a pillar. Her lips threatened to twitch into a smile from time to time when she briefly beheld heartwarming moments between a family, or a Man and his beloved, for greatly did it remind her of her own home. However, the happiness she felt did not last and she was soon again contemplating unwelcomed thoughts, accompanied by a bitter memory when she stared into the dark and ill-contented eyes of Grima Wormtongue. But quickly did Duvaineth realize her thoughts were once more working to take hold of her like a shadow. She shook her head, hoping to dispatch them. "Such thoughts should not fall upon me tonight," she murmured.

Yet, no matter her efforts, they refused to leave. A heavy concern remained. Grima Wormtongue was capable of great power; dark power. Would he shadow Théoden King, or would the king prevail against it? Duvaineth did not know. Her eyes left the floor that had been of odd interest and fell on Éomer, who again stood near the dais. He was not alone and was speaking to the same Man she had seen earlier at the king's side, who was introduced to her as Théodred, son of the king.

_"Ah, Mistress Duvaineth," Théoden had said as the elleth approached him in the company of his niece. "With all gladness do I welcome you! How do you enjoy the feast?"_

_"I enjoy it very much so, Your Majesty," Duvaineth answered. "Truly, you spoil me with such kindness, however much it further attests to your generous hospitality, yet I cannot deny the comfort it brings me."_

_"That is good to hear!" Théoden smiled broadly. "Our people are quite different from each other, indeed, but I would rather believe courtesy can be established. We share a common interest. So take joy and feast, and revel in songs and tales."_

_"I can only agree with your words, my king. It is a fine feast. I thank you for allowing me to partake in it."_

_It was then Théoden remembered and he gestured to the Man with whom he had earlier been in discussion with. "Have you not met my son, Théodred?"_

_Duvaineth's eyes moved to the Man. She had only seen him before at the side of his father as she stood at a distance in the crowd, not having truly looked upon him previously. Now that he was closer, she was able to. He stood tall and his face was fair with long, golden hair tamed and swept over his shoulders, and he clasped his hands deferentially behind his back. He very much resembled Éomer, she saw. Duvaineth smiled. "I believe I have not had the pleasure."_

_Théodred returned the smile with a warm and kind one of his own. The Man in question stepped forward, his hands still behind his back, and bowed. "Good health to you, Mistress Duvaineth," he said. "I welcome you to my father's home, and I hope you will find the comfort you seek."_

Comfort. The very thought was bitter upon her mind. Would she ever find comfort in this world? As enjoyable as it was to dine with Prince Théodred and Éowyn and to hear quite extensively of the land of Rohan and their people, and their culture that was but bare to her knowledge, hearing of interesting tales of both good and ill, and savoring the taste of the sweet wine offered to her, it was there she felt little peace or comfort. Nay, it mattered not. Each night reminded her days of walking underneath the Sun in Imladris, and sleeping underneath the dark, velvety sky, the stars bright and glimmering – Despondency, she felt each night. Ever so curiously her mind wandered, thoughts both ill and good passing, and each time as she gazed upon the starry night sky she felt a growing shadow endeavoring to overcome her. Yet, a light still shined. It was dim, but, hidden beneath the dark veils of Evil, it was there. Darkness had not yet attempted to overcome her mind as she slept, an occurrence that had not come to pass for some time now.

She had been sleeping well as of late, Duvaineth realized. She stopped, however, as the thought dwelled in her mind. Duvaineth frowned, her shoulders tensing at that. Wait. Was that good? Why would such darkness remain far from her dreams when it never had before? There was no reason for it to. Was there not? What was happening? She had not noticed it until now. Valar, did that mean something else was happening? Something more subtle? Duvaineth swallowed. At least she was becoming accustomed to that darkness. Why did it remain from her now? Valar, what was happening?

Duvaineth rubbed her forehead in frustration. Alas, no matter how great in his efforts did Théoden King tried to bring peace all to the minds and hearts to his people, it did little for his guest. Admirable his efforts were, indeed, but it could not quell her own shadow.

Duvaineth retired early. The affairs of the evening quickly caught up to her, and a sense of lethargy fell upon her she could not pull herself from. As soon as she laid her head upon her pillow, Duvaineth was taken into a deep slumber. Yet brief it was, for she was visited by darkness that she had not encountered for many weeks. She awoken with a start and it took her a short time to realize that she had sat up-right and clutched her chest, her breathing ragged. Grief had clouded her very mind and pain stung her body so sharply that she could do nothing but scream. The dream had felt real; very real, as if she were locked behind the doors of Barad-dûr all over again…

Duvaineth closed her eyes and took a moment to gather her breath, and when she opened them she beheld the deeply concerned face of Éowyn in the soft amber glow of the small number of lit candles that surrounded the room. To say her presence startled Duvaineth was an understatement, and she nearly spoke quickly and sharply, had she not seen the concern that the woman bore. She let out an exhausted breath, the relief that suddenly swept over her so overwhelming that her head spun. She held her forehead, turning away from Éowyn as she waited for the dizziness to dissipate. Valar, how could that have been a mere dream? The clutches of darkness and torment had felt so real. Blessed stars above, what was wrong with her?

"Duvaineth?" She heard Éowyn's soft, yet concerned tone in the dark. "Are you unwell, my friend?"

"No," Duvaineth was quick to answer, though evident it was in her own tone how troubled she was. "I am well. Do not worry, my lady. It was merely a dream."

A dream, her mind told her. But no dream it was; it was a memory, and for a long while Duvaineth found herself standing by the window near her bed, simply staring at the view of Edoras underneath the black velvet of the star-strewn sky as she retreated deep in thought. Thoughts that were far from pleasant, that is, and many doubts shadowed her mind. Sleep finally came only after a long duration of it evading her, though it still proved to be short-lived, for sunrise came shortly after. The day passed slowly, but Duvaineth felt slower. She spent her time in the company of Éowyn, but little good did it do to ease her mind. She wholeheartedly welcomed the auburn colors in the sky as the Sun slowly disappeared into the horizon. Yet when nightfall came, her mind refused to let her sleep. Her heart was clouded with fear from the night before, many a thought racing. Sleep would not come so easily, if at all. And so admitting defeat, Duvaineth rose from her bed and wandered the Meduseld and soon found herself outside the great hall.

The air was still. A peaceful silence had fallen upon Edoras, yet she found she could not feel it herself. It was naught but darkness and its threat to root her in place.

She could sense him, haunting as the very night, ever so tenacious to ensnare her. Her mind struggled as it writhed against the heavy shadow that lingered. Fear and doubt clouded her still, though she knew not why. Duvaineth dearly wished she could say. She searched her thoughts fervently but could not find an answer. And so heavily was she in her thoughts that she did not hear approaching footsteps, nor took notice of Éomer coming to stand at her side. He waited silently for a moment and when she still did not take notice of his presence, he chuckled to himself and spoke. "Great must be the wake of your thoughts to be so distracting that you do not notice the presence of others! Yet it is a fine night for such to be, do you not think?"

Duvaineth jumped but was only briefly startled, and the Man next to her let out a hearty laugh. She smiled. "Forgive me. You frightened me."

Éomer attempted to conceal his amusement but failed as the trembling of his lips gave away the laughter that soon erupted, along with the rather large smile that followed. "Is that so? I could not tell." He then again chuckled. "It is late. What disturbs you from slumber and keeps you so far from it?"

A troubled look shadowed her features. "Unpleasant dreams."

"Ah." Éomer nodded. "It appears you and I share the same discomfort."

"You were visited by an unwelcomed dream as well, my lord?"

"I would more dub it a nightmare than a dream," Éomer clarified. She quirked an eyebrow at that. Dark indeed his dream must have been, for the look now gracing his strong face was not the tender or kind expression he had often bore with her. "Alas," he sighed, "that the visage of war does such to a Man."

Duvaineth smiled sadly. "I am sorry."

"Nay, do not apologize. It is no fault of yours." With the shake of his head Éomer dismissed her words. "Gladly do I abide mine uncle's command and ride to war on his behalf. The loss of many good men is as great as the vision of war and death is horrific, yet I shall not abandon my duty no matter how heavy it falls upon my heart to see such things. But I wonder, shall it ever come to an end?"

Not even Duvaineth could say. She did not answer. Instead, her eyes gazed out to Rohan and the darkened paths. A silence fell between them, but it was neither discomforting nor long-lasting, for soon the Rohír spoke up again. "The air is still. I have not seen such a night for some time."

Duvaineth's gaze was suddenly on him, her eyes bearing a look of bewilderment, something having stirred within her. "What did you say?"

Éomer said nothing. He looked at her, confusion heavily written on his features. She paid no mind to him, however, barely hearing his words. The familiar words of Gandalf he relayed to her before her departure from Imladris echoed in her ears. _When grows darker the Shadow, when becomes quiet the world and little hangs in the air...return to Imladris, and seek me._

It was at that moment Duvaineth realized the fulfillment of his words and, had it not been for Éomer's rather casual observation to her, she would have never seen it. The air was dark and still, and an unsettling breeze blew with it. A cold shiver ran down her spine and there was a darkness, but it was not the fall of the night. Why did she not see this before? Had she truly felt the Shadow upon her for so long that she hardly noticed its presence darkening other lands? The thought terrified her.

Without a word, Duvaineth returned inside Meduseld. There was little time to waste. She must return to Imladris and quickly. Her wound was mostly healed and she would be able to bear the journey without much difficulty. Upon arrival to her assigned quarters, Duvaineth searched for and gathered her belongings. They were not much; only her bow, quiver, and a small number of daggers that had been retrieved when she was brought wounded to Edoras. Along with her weapons was also her satchel, but her sword, however, was gone, lost amid her battle against the Warg-riders.

"You are leaving."

Duvaineth turned around to find Éowyn standing in the doorway, who bore a look of sadness. The elleth nodded slightly. "I am."

"So suddenly," Éowyn went on, her eyebrows knitted together. Her sadness now gave way to confusion. "And at such a late hour!"

"Something has occurred and I must return home," Duvaineth explained. "Théoden King greatly deserves a proper farewell, and you no less, were there even a morsel of time to spare for it. But now I must leave with haste. I am sorry."

"Nay! You need not to apologize to me." Éowyn shook her head. "I would not keep you from your home, though it saddens me to see you leave. You have been a dear friend to me and great company."

"Do not be sad!" Duvaineth insisted. "You will always have a friend in me, wherever I may be or the roads I travel. That, my dear friend, is a promise."

Her words brought joy to Éowyn and, though she was still saddened that her only dear friend was departing from them, it gave her hope, however small it might be. Éowyn smiled widely. "It is for that reason I give you this." She held up a long, white garment. It was her tunic, Duvaineth realized, washed of the grimy marks it attained over the course of her travels, the torn and tattered sleeves sewn together again. "I was able to wash away most of the blood and I repaired what was torn. I thought you would feel more comfortable wearing it."

"Indeed I do. I favor this garment with my heart. Thank you, Éowyn." Duvaineth smiled gratefully as she gingerly accepted it, feeling the clean and crisp fabric underneath her fingers. "You did a fine work! It is as pleasing as raiment newly made."

"It was my pleasure," Éowyn replied. "It took some time, I will say, and I was unable to clean every stain, but I would not have you walk from here wearing such a beaten garment!"

"And I shall value it ever more now, for you have repaired it." Duvaineth then turned away for a brief moment to change into the garment. Once she was properly clothed, the elleth approached her friend and gently rested her hand on her shoulder. "I take my leave, but I ask that you bear no sadness for it. Carry with you each night the belief - nay, the hope, that you will no longer feel darkness. Moonlight drowns out all but the brightest stars. You and your people are that star, Éowyn. Lead them by example what hope looks like and that it still remains."

They embraced tightly before exchanging a tender farewell and well wishes to one another, and Éowyn bid her a safe journey. With one last smile to the woman who had become a dear friend to her in the past months, Duvaineth brushed past her and left, making her way to the stables. There, she began preparing her mare for the long journey that awaited them. They would have to ride swiftly without much pause. Duvaineth only hoped her horse would not tire too easily, for great haste was needed for the ride they would have to undertake. "Gather your strength, sweet one," she murmured as she lightly ran her hand along Gilroch's flank. "For greatly will I have need of it. We return home and little time can be thrown to waste." Giving a firm pat on her back, Duvaineth adjusted her saddle and fed her an apple, ensured she drank a decent amount of water before handling the last, small details in preparation for their departure. She stopped short, however, when she felt a presence standing in the shadows of the stable. Instead of feeling nervous or reaching for one of her daggers - a natural instinct of hers that she most often did that hinted at her discomfort - she smiled, instead. For she knew who it was. "You must pardon me, my lord, but the dark does not suit you well. The Sun compliments you better."

She heard a light chuckle behind her, followed by a brief shift as he moved. "A compliment I shall carry with me! But I believe leaving without a word hardly puts you in a favorable light, Mistress Duvaineth."

"Oh?" she questioned, turning and facing the amused Man in front of her. "Some would disagree with you, my lord. They would find gladness in my departure, and mayhap even more so if I did not utter a word. After all, they fear too much of becoming cursed should they express their joy in front of me."

"They are fools. Nonetheless..." His lips twitched into a smirk. "I would take great joy in seeing them squirm with their foolhardy belief of such."

Duvaineth laughed. "You would not then need my tales to entertain you!"

"No, but greatly would I still miss them and your company."

A soft smile graced her lips. "I must leave, Lord Éomer."

"I know," he said quietly, and then he sighed. "And were you still suffering from your wound I would then insist you stay. But then it would be out of mine own greed rather than your wellbeing. I will not ask why you now leave so hastily, but I know it involves your homeland, and I would not keep you from it."

"Thank you," Duvaineth said softly. "And I speak sincerely, my lord. I thank you for not only your understanding, but for all you have done for me. You extended to me grace and kindness no Man would have thought to give. My life was spared because of you. I shall never forget it."

Éomer lowered his eyes to hers and there they held each other's unshifting gaze for what felt many moments, and for a moment there was silence between them. Something fell over Duvaineth that she could not explain. His dark eyes, kind and filled with a small bit of sadness, bore into hers. Her own could not tear away from his and could only gaze back into his own eyes. It was as if a spell had fallen over them both, and it greatly confused her. "I hope to see you again one day," he said at length. "And may it be where you are well and do not have a sword embedded in you!" he added in jest.

"Oh, let us hope!" Duvaineth laughed with him. In one swift movement, she mounted Gilroch and gathered the reins in her hands. Strangely, relief flooded over her as she no longer was held under Éomer's gaze, a fluster she had felt burning her neck. It was peculiar, she thought, but she decided to push it aside for the time being.

"Here." Éomer stepped forward, a small satchel in his hands of which he extended up to her to take hold of, which she did with care. "When you returned to Meduseld so suddenly, I knew something was amiss. In the event you were to leave, I packed you rations and an extra skin of water. Your journey is long, I do not doubt. I would not wish for you to depart empty-handed."

"Thank you," was all Duvaineth could utter. "You have shown me a great kindness I could never hope to repay. Truly, I am grateful."

"There would be no need of repayment to my deeds. I would not ask it. What kindness I extended to you and will continue to extend to you, I do it by the will of my heart. All I ask is a safe return to your home."

"It shall be done," Duvaineth promised. "Farewell, Lord Éomer. May the days to come shine well upon you, your sister, and your gracious king. And may you find hope where you tread and the strength to fight against Sauron."

He grinned. "Should we meet again, I would very much enjoy exchanging tales!"

Duvaineth smiled. "I would have it no other way, my lord."

Éomer stepped back from her. He gave her a firm and short nod. "Farewell, Mistress Duvaineth."

"Noro lim, Gilroch," Duvaineth urged her mare. "Noro lim! Northam nan gelegas na Imladris!"

Gilroch did not need any further encouragement. With eagerness she sped into a gallop and Duvaineth was soon flying from the gates of Edoras and onto the open fields of Rohan.

Her arrival to Imladris was hardly an easy achievement. The days felt long; always almost a wait that was more like a torment. Little rest could be found, less food was consumed, but greedily did she quench her thirst. Sleep was scarcer, but upon waking in the morning her eyes beheld a very familiar sight she indeed had dearly missed: the wooded path in the Trollshaws. It was not long before her eyes fell upon Imladris. Duvaineth let out a long sigh of relief. There were times where she doubted she would gaze upon its beauty again, even as she rested comfortably and safely in Rohan. They were all within her dreams. Dark and taunting dreams. Untrue visages. That was all they were and she was glad for it.

Having neither the desire nor patience to remain gazing upon Imladris instead of being in the safe walls of her home once more, Duvaineth eagerly sent Gilroch into a full gallop. With every moment that passed, the Last Homely House drew closer until finally she reached the wide courtyard. As she came to an abrupt stop, Duvaineth lifted her head and turned her gaze to the long flight of stairs before her as a lone and tall figure clothed in grey slowly descended the steps towards her. He held a pipe in one hand and a staff in the other, and underneath the brim of his tall, grey hat was a calm face. Duvaineth could not help but smile widely as she recognized the Wizard, all the while feeling relief as she had never felt before.

"Ah." He reached the last step and stood still, leaning against his staff. "You are early. I have been expecting you."

"Mithrandir," was all Duvaineth could say with a joyous laugh.

The Wizard smiled warmly at her. "My, quite the adventure you must have had, Duvaineth, for you to be so happy to see one as aged as myself!"

"That is an understatement, my friend!" Duvaineth swung one leg up over the pommel of her saddle and hopped off, giving her mare a gentle pat to her side as she stepped away. "An adventure indeed, but all the more concerning as well."

"Hmm?" he hummed thoughtfully as he tapped his finger lightly on his pipe. "Is that so?"

"Mithrandir." The tone in her voice gave him pause and when he looked in her eyes, he saw an emotion he had not seen for many years. Fear. "Sauron has grown stronger."

* * *

**Author's Note: Elvish translation time!**

**Noro Lim = Ride fast**

**Northam nan gelegas na = We ride with haste to Imladris**


	10. The Uneasy Wait

**Author's Note:**

**I am sincerely, deeply, truly sorry for the late update! I have no excuse, other than becoming easily distracted. I appreciate your patience (or impatience but still decided to stick with me), and I reward thee with a chapter. :)**

**Reviews are loved. Constructive criticism is worshiped. Please let me know what you think! As an author it is highly welcomed and we will give you cookies.**

* * *

"You tell me you saw in Rohan what I forewarned you of, and yet that is not all. An ill influence stands at the side of the king and threatens his wellbeing. Indeed, your tale weaves a concern that has troubled my mind for some time. Orcs roaming the lands is no revelation, an activity that should be expected that it is. Warg-riders, however…now, that inspires many questions."

"Questions that inspire answers hardly pleasant to the ears, I am sure."

"It brings me sadness to say it, but yes. I believe so. For a long while now the legions of Mordor have tainted the wide lands. Now Sauron is gaining his full strength."

Duvaineth shook her head. "He cannot gain his full strength without the One Ring. He can only become as strong as he can without it, and he is strong enough without the Ring in his possession. The mere thought fills me with dread."

"Then you will little like what I have to say next," Gandalf said. Sighing, he continued. "Our days grow dark, mayhap worse now than before. Deny this I know you would not, for you have felt it for some time. This concerns Lord Elrond. He stood many hours with me in deep council concerning many things. But we did not come to an agreement."

"An agreement," Duvaineth echoed quietly. "An agreement to what, if I may inquire? Your story interests me."

Gandalf hesitated, an action that made the elleth uneasy. Her eyes bore into him, dark and curious. "What is it, Mithrandir?"

"You know well of the dark power and sway Sauron possesses," the Wizard began. "Weak he may be, but that does not entirely diminish his power. Our council concerned this. Sauron and his strength." His answer, though sincere, was not entirely truthful. There was something else and Duvaineth knew it. She stopped their walk and turned to him, opening her mouth to speak. But the words did not come. She did not have the strength to ask. Yet she did not need to, for one look in his eyes told her everything, and the answer she sensed they both feared to utter.

"I believe I now know what it truly entailed. It was of the One Ring, was it not, my friend?"

He nodded slowly. "It was."

"But the One Ring has been lost for yéni."

"Until now."

Duvaineth stared at him incredulously. She did not move, as if winter had come and froze her in place. "Surely not."

"I am afraid so," Gandalf said gravely. "The Ring has been founded for fifty years and right under my nose as well! Fortunately, it has been in the hands of one that is not so easily corrupted, though attached to it he became over the years."

It was not for some time that Duvaineth was able to find her voice. "Who?" she then inquired curiously.

Again, Gandalf hesitated. And then, an innocent smile broke free. "A Hobbit."

"A Hobbit!" Duvaineth exclaimed. "They should not know of such evil, Mithrandir!"

"I fear the Shadow will come to them in due time, should nothing be done. The Shire remains safe for the present, but I know not for how long before evil finds its way upon their doorstep. This is why Lord Elrond is concerned. The Ring is no longer hidden and it now rests in the hands of the former bearer's nephew. He seeks the safety of Rivendell but has not yet arrived. Even I am beginning to fear where his trail may be."

"That is discomforting news. And he bears this journey alone?"

"Not entirely," Gandalf answered. "With him is a companion, a stout-hearted Hobbit! However, so long as they remain out there they are not safe. You know what servants the Dark Lord has at his command. They actively seek the One Ring at his behest. They would drive a dark blade through him if it meant they would obtain it."

"A Morgul Blade." A look of uneasiness danced across her features. "Those are ill tidings."

"Indeed they are. You know of the Nine and their capability, the Witch-King of Angmar among them all. You know what will happen if they retrieve the Ring."

"I wish not to spend even so much as a moment on the thought."

"Yet aside from myself, you know well about them."

"All too well," Duvaineth said, her voice dry and filled with bitter disdain. "Yet do not be fooled that the Nine are his only weapon. They are not. You know this. He favors toying with the mind. That is his strongest weapon. He haunts me each day and torments me in my dreams where I feel I cannot escape."

"Let us hope that the mind of our dear Hobbit is stronger than we believe it to be."

"For all that is good in this world, Mithrandir, dearly do I hope so." They fell back into a walk. "He will need great strength if he now bears the Ring and Sauron's servants seek him. Even I struggle to repel against him, yet I do. It is a trying effort, one I hope the Ring-bearer will not have to endure."

They continued their walk together, though far they were from discussing pleasantries, sharing all that had transpired since their last meeting and Duvaineth telling the Wizard the small details she had left out, but neither spoke yet of the Elvish blade. She decided she would present it to him in the presence of Lord Elrond in a private council. She would need both of their wisdom. This continued on for another hour before Gandalf took note of the day and saw how much time had passed. "Alas, evening will be upon us in a few hours, and yet much needs to be done and spoken still," he said with a sigh. "Heed my words; rest! Your journey was long, I do not doubt. Rest for a while if you can. You look as if you could greatly use it."

Greatly strained her mind had been in weariness that Duvaineth could not remember when she had last truly slept. She nodded and agreed with the Wizard, and then parted from him. As soon as she laid her head upon her pillow, she quickly fell into a deep slumber, one that was surprisingly dreamless. Her slumber was long – though not the longest she ever slept, her time in Rohan having surpassed that – and when Duvaineth awoke she felt a peace over her she had not felt for a time now. Looking out the window, Duvaineth saw it was late; the Sun had long disappeared into the horizon and all glimmered softly under the white light of the Moon. For how long had she slept, Duvaineth wondered. She did not know, but she knew with all certainty it had not been five days!

Duvaineth turned and looked out the window above the nightstand. From where she lay, she could see the starry night quite well; unveiled and bright, the Moon's silver rays of light illuminating the valley below. As she removed herself from her bed and approached the window, she saw that the Falls of Imladris seemed to have a beautiful glimmer underneath the sky. Duvaineth soon found her mind drifting away in her thoughts. She thought about Éowyn and wondered how she fared as she dwelled in Théoden King's home, under the lustful eyes of Grima Wormtongue and his dark words. And Éomer – what of him? How well did he calm his temper and barely tamed tongue toward Grima? Duvaineth faulted him not. She could not. She admired the love the Rohír had for his home. He would speak and act freely if it meant the protection of those he loved. Yet she wondered, just how much benefit would it provide him?

Duvaineth remained like that at the window, deep in her thoughts. After a while, she turned and looked back at her bed. She was still tired and the night would not be leaving soon. If indeed she had been granted brief peace and undisturbed slumber wrought by dark dreams – an occurrence strange and worrisome, though not frequent as it once had been, but not uncommon in the house of Lord Elrond, then verily she would take advantage of it; she knew not how long the gift would last. And so Duvaineth returned to her bed and laid her head upon her pillow, and smiled as she gazed at the full crescent Moon, as a soothing wave fell over her heart and mind. No more were her fears, for they vanished into dust like one with the wind, and she drifted off into a deep slumber.

* * *

Éomer had long given up on sleep. It was late, but he was not tired. His body would not let him and his mind was awake with many thoughts. When he at last had enough of the fruitless attempts to fall asleep, he submitted to defeat and in frustration, tossed away his covers and rose from his bed. There was far too much on his mind; concerns and curiosities he could not rid himself of and he decided a walk may do him some good, though he was very doubtful of its effect. He felt as if he were on the back of Firefoot, galloping with great speed against the wind, yet with no direction or purpose. That was his mind this night; fast and whirling hard like an untamed wind.

The fresh air helped, yet heavily burdened his thoughts remained. If anything, he felt all the more restless. Soon Éomer returned to Meduseld and sat in the great hall near the burning hearth, every now and then stoking the fire. He sat quietly in a deep reverie. He thought about many things that concerned him; the Mark, his uncle, dearest Éowyn, Grima Wormtongue and his poisonous tongue. Out of them all, however, he thought about Duvaineth. He wondered if she returned to her home safely yet and how she fared. To say that she was missed would undoubtedly be an understatement. Éowyn was again alone and sad as she spent her days in the Golden Hall, tending to the gloomy affairs that were bestowed upon her. His uncle had been very disappointed to hear of her hasty departure, though some questioned it, the sneering Grima among them. Éomer himself missed her counsel and wisdom. Even Théodred had wondered about Duvaineth's whereabouts.

When Éomer briefly relayed to him in fleeting detail of what had transpired that night, Théodred had nodded. "I see. I must say it is a shame," he had said. "Her company was pleasant. I enjoyed hearing of her kin. Do you think we might see her again?"

"That I cannot say for certain," was Éomer's response. "I hope one day we will meet again. One such as her with such kindness and gratitude towards our king will always be welcomed in his home."

That was nigh over a fortnight ago. Éomer reclined back in his seat as he stared thoughtfully at the flickering flames, his fingers absentmindedly running over the armrest of the chair. The sound of faint footsteps echoing in the hall reached his ears, but he hardly focused any of his attention on it.

"Does sleep evade you as well?" enquired a soft voice. A smile spread over Éomer's lips and he turned to look at the fair and concerned face of his sister.

"Frequently it does, but fret not. I am well," he said, and then quirked an eyebrow at her. "What keeps you up at this hour?"

"Too much, I fear," Éowyn answered grimly.

Concern now etched its way into his own face, threatening to turn into a scowl. "Does Grima trouble you?"

"No, he does not. I am thankful he does not wander our uncle's home at night. Something else keeps me awake."

"Come, then," Éomer urged. "Sit with me and tell me what lays so heavily on you."

Éowyn nodded. She retrieved a nearby chair against the wall and brought it to the hearth, easing into it with a weary sigh, but she said nothing. She sat in silence, contemplating. Finally, she spoke. "The night of her departure, Duvaineth bade me follow certain words. It has been on my mind since."

Éomer leaned forward, resting his arms on his knees, his interest piqued. "What did she say to you?"

"She said…. Well, forgive me, for it has been a fortnight since she told me this and I cannot remember precisely what she said, but it is close. She said, I take my leave, but I ask that you bear no sadness for it. Carry with hope, that you will no longer feel darkness. Moonlight drowns out all but the brightest stars. You and your people are that star, Éowyn. Show them hope still remains. I know what she meant. Duvaineth means to encourage me to give hope to the people in Edoras and all throughout the Riddermark, mayhap even through my words or actions. It troubles me. I do not think I have the strength or the very hope in my heart to do so."

Her brother smiled benevolently. "I believe Duvaineth's words to be true. Our king sees to the safety of our people. He ensures they are well and away from harm, yet little is he able to give them hope, for he bears such a small amount of it himself. Few, if none at all, do. But you are young, my dear sister, and have wisdom. Our people may yet look to you for hope. I know it stirs somewhere within you. It is hidden. You must unveil it."

"How?" Éowyn asked quietly. "How can I do so for our people when I am uncertain of mine own hope, a light I feel that has long been burnt by darkness?"

"It is a difficult task to bear, I do not doubt," Éomer said softly. "Dark are our days, yet hope is not forever gone. Find what brings you joy, even if it may be temporary. Find it and share it to your people. Search your heart and find your hope. Remember Duvaineth! Endless was her hope though she was beset by foul trials, but it remained. Why, I do not know. How, I cannot answer. But it was there. You must do the same. You looked to Duvaineth and saw she had hope, and so it filled within your soul. If our people shall look to us and see that the Lady Éowyn, niece of the king, has hope, and they too shall have it."

Éowyn quietly weighed on his words. Her eyes were as if no light shined in them, her lips formed into a straight line. She looked up at him. "Do you believe I have the strength to do so, Éomer?"

"I believe, my dear sister, that you indeed do. With all my heart I do believe."

* * *

The days came and went. It felt like a blur to Duvaineth and soon a week passed since her return to Imladris. There was not yet word on the Hobbit and his companion, none that Duvaineth heard of, at least. Mithrandir's words were henceforth on her mind and frequently she sought the comforting seclusion of Elrond's library. And then, with no forewarning, a visitor came to Imladris. It was not so unusual a circumstance, but soon after many more arrived; three Hobbits, a Man, and an Elf. Duvaineth scarcely had the chance to see the group of companions but soon learned through Mithrandir that their anticipated guests had arrived, bringing with them more companions than he had predicted. Yet they bore also with them dire tidings, that the one in possession of the One Ring had been pursued by the Nine and had arrived suffering a wound from a Morgul Blade.

"Worry not," Mithrandir was quick to assure the elleth. "He has been healed of his grievances and now rests. He and the Ring are safe at the present."

For how long, Duvaineth wondered grimly.

Regardless, she took comfort in the Hobbit's safety. Yet, she wondered what else might transpire. Her curiosity only grew when more visitors arrived at Imladris, for this circumstance was far more circumspect. Dwarves, Elves, and a lone Man who did not even claim a horse and looked as if he had traveled very far. That evening Mithrandir approached her. "Long have been the days while we have dwelled on many troubling thoughts. We seek answers to trying questions and far do our minds take us as a heavy concern weighs on us. As you may already know, there is a small number that have come to Imladris seeking the very same as we do, and it is why Lord Elrond has thought it expedient and so chose to wright what benefit he can from it. There shall be a council, one where we will come together and unweigh our worries and seek a decision of what shall be done against Sauron's growing threat. Many are welcome to attend if they so desire, you among them, and I believe your presence during the council would be most valuable."

"I thank you for your consideration, my friend," Duvaineth said, "though hardly is it any desire of mine. Nor do I believe my seat would hold any value in assisting the purpose of this council."

"Oh, quite the contrary," Gandalf corrected her. "It was Lord Elrond who suggested you as a guest to the council. I but merely agreed. Your presence would be of great assistance to the assembly of peoples so that they may gather a fuller understanding"

Duvaineth hesitated. What darkness would then come upon her? She knew what fruit the council would bear. And the very presence of Sauron would be before her. What would it do? Would she be able to withstand it? Duvaineth looked at him from the corner of her eye. He hardly appeared affected by their discussion and when he looked at her, though she felt a sense of foreboding, she could not help but feel amused at the unperturbed expression on his face. "My presence would mean little. I would only listen and observe what needs to be said. I would have nothing to say."

"Save for what you have told me and what knowledge you possess. The choice is yours. Lord Elrond will not force you, but he will welcome your presence all the same."

Duvaineth remained silent. The only sound that could be heard was the echoes of their footsteps in the empty hall. The elleth dwelled heavily on the Wizard's words and her own discomfort on the matter. At length, she spoke. "Very well. If it is the will of Lord Elrond, even if but a request of his, then I will come. If I may at all assist in the war against Sauron, then gladly I will."

"Good, then." Gandalf nodded firmly. "Lord Elrond will be pleased. I know it brings you little joy to hear that which concerns the Dark Lord, and even less desirable are the thoughts I know that plagues your heart." He regarded her with tender eyes, his features glowing warmth; a grandfatherly look that soothed away the troubles of her heart. "And I hope it shall be brief at the council that you must hear these unpleasant, and perchance dark, tales and tidings. Such should not even be uttered in Imladris, for oppressive they are to those who seek peace. But great is the matter that all must hear these things. Rest well tonight, Duvaineth, for come a matter of a couple of days there will be feast in the honor of our guest's recovery. Your presence would be welcomed!"

Duvaineth could not argue with the Wizard, for when she returned to her chambers that night, she felt exceptionally tired. However, before she could think about retiring to bed, her eyes fell on the nightstand at her bedside. A lit candle sat there, the fire burning dimly. Next to it lay a folded piece of paper with her name written in a neat, bold, and very familiar handwriting. Duvaineth's eyebrows furrowed together. She recalled neither the candle nor the parchment being there before, nor did she recall retrieving the candle and lighting it while the day still burned brightly well before evening came. Duvaineth crossed the room and retrieved the parchment and, with great curiosity, unfolded it. It was a note, yet it gave no hint as to who had written it. But she needed no hint, for she knew immediately who it was.

_Duvaineth, one who I call Meluiwen,_

_I was told you have returned to Rivendell. Joy fills me that cannot be expressed to know you are well, though it grieves me to have learned of the injury you suffered. I would have come sooner, but important affairs needed my attention first and when I was at last able to visit you, you were long in slumber. May it be that we will see each other soon, if not until tomorrow evening, then. I trust you will be at the feast for a small Hobbit by the name of Frodo Baggins? He is indeed fine company. He would lift your spirits should they be in such need._

_I look forward to our meeting. There is much to be relayed, I am certain!_

Duvaineth smiled to herself. Much, indeed!

* * *

"You are quiet, Mithrandir."

"Hmm? Oh, pray pardon me, Duvaineth. I did not sleep very much last night."

"That comes as little wonder. Was your nose again buried in Lord Elrond's library?"

"You could say that," Gandalf answered with a smile. "With much on my mind, but yes."

"I thought as much."

"Oh? Is that so? Pray tell, how did you come to suspect this?"

"You had a distant look in your eyes. It is one I have borne in mine own eyes many a time. I would be a blinded fool to not recognize it."

"Was it truly that evident?"

Duvaineth smiled. "Quite."

"Ah," Gandalf chuckled lightly. "You must forgive me. Any thought about the Ring has not left me. I am afraid it has left me dwelling on it for many days prior to your return to Imladris."

"Alas, that is the strength of Sauron's power. I take it your thoughts have been none too pleasant?"

"Indeed they have not been," Gandalf answered gravely. Duvaineth nodded but said nothing. The Wizard soon spoke again. "I am only mindlessly mumbling. I should not speak of such things tonight, for it is this evening that Lord Elrond bids us all to feast and enjoy ourselves with lightly burdened hearts. Yet I feel even the feast will not lie to rest the concerns that are heavy on my heart, nor would I believe he expects that of many, if any at all."

"My friend!" Duvaineth laughed. "When have you been known to have a still mind?"

The hall of Elrond's home was not empty, as expected, but Duvaineth was surprised to see the number of guests. It was filled with many; Elves for the most part, though there were a few guests of other sorts. Dwarves and Men, and even Hobbits, Duvaineth noticed. Elrond, as was his custom, sat in a great chair at the end of the long table upon the dais and next to him on the one side sat Glorfindel, and on the other side was an empty chair, soon to be filled by Mithrandir. There were still several seats available for those who had yet to arrive. "Well," the Wizard chuckled as he turned to her. "Does this not look familiar to you? I believe something of the sort occurred many years ago."

"Indeed, and I still think it was unnecessary," she said, inciting a laugh from him. "A kind and gracious host Lord Elrond was to me. All I could think was to return his benevolence, though needless I felt his kindness was."

"You healed from a wound that nearly left you paralyzed to darkness. That is no small feat, or painless."

"I was mostly asleep—"

"Where we were, yes," Gandalf said, his voice low and his eyes turned downward at her sternly. "But beyond where we could reach you, it was not quite so, now was it?"

Duvaineth pressed her lips together. "No," she sighed, "it was not. I was wrought in a world that was not mine of many terrible dreams – nightmares, I should say. Each one knew my weakness and sought to destroy me."

"And that, my dear Elf," Gandalf smiled, "is no small feat."

"Hmm." Duvaineth heard but said nothing else. Gandalf then turned away and left her to her thoughts and took his seat at the side of Elrond. She glanced at the long table where many sat. She recognized a few faces, but there were so many she had never seen before. "There are many unfamiliar faces, indeed," Duvaineth noted out loud. "Yet still, I wonder who all has come."

"I cannot say, but I hope you will find at least one friendly face!"

Duvaineth turned around in one quick motion. She was startled, not in a way where she was briefly frightened, but surprised. Her wide smile could not be contained, for the one she gazed upon filled her with the greatest joy. "Aragorn! Thia non lúguil mi thî ah ir din cennin medui!"

The Man smiled fondly at her. "It has indeed been some time, mayhap too long!" Aragorn then went forward and pulled the elleth into a tight and loving embrace. "Sweet Duvaineth! How happy am I see you return, and so well!"

"I was beginning to wonder if you were here in Imladris," Duvaineth said, pulling back, "for your name was mentioned, but I had yet to see you. And here you are!"

"Do not forget! You heard from me."

"Ah! So I did. But I know very little with you. You can be here one hour and gone the next," Duvaineth said with a soft laugh.

Aragorn grinned. "And it is such movements that keep me safe from mine enemies. I am here and I will remain here for some time, as I suspect you will too. Come! Let us join Lord Elrond and his guests and sit with them so that we might enjoy this evening and fill our stomach well with food, and that you may tell me all that has happened. I heard you were in Rohan for the duration of your travels. I am very curious."

It was not long after Aragorn and Duvaineth joined the rest at the table that platters and bowls of plentiful and delicious food were set before them and Elrond greeted and welcomed all, blessing the feast with words of kindness and encouragement so that they might be filled with delight and hope. Many gladly took part in the chatter that circulated around the table as they dined. The Men roared with laughter and many tales of their home and exciting battles to follow; the Elves spoke to one another of their kin and a handful of Men, but their particular interest were the four small Hobbits that were present tonight. Even the Dwarves allowed themselves to partake in storytelling and simple talk, though to whom they spoke were of a few number, for very wary they remained among the Elves and they too return the unfriendly gesture. The Hobbits, however, were a very kind and peaceful folk. They knew no difference between the Men, Elves, and other Dwarves. Their awe and curiosity was far too great to even have the thought to divide themselves as the Dwarves did. Even so, they would not understand the need to. They were innocent, vastly shielded from the scars of war and unfriendly pasts.

Like her kin, Duvaineth's curiosity was on the Hobbits, though her interest also remained trained on the Dwarves as well, for she had never seen them before and they were most peculiar.

Aragorn noticed her interest and leaned forward, whispering to her so that only she may hear. "I do not know if Gandalf has mentioned to you of my recent travels, but with me on my return to Rivendell were four Hobbits. The first one to the left is Peregrin Took. He is...very interesting, I will say. Clumsy a bit, but he means well. To his side is Meridock Brandybuck. He is sharper than Peregrin, and is quick on his feet. To the far end on the right is Samwise Gamgee. He is a Hobbit with a stout heart and the love that he holds for his friend, most certainly his close friendship with the one at his side, is undoubtedly strong. He has strength in him. And there, at his side is Frodo Baggins. He carries the heaviest weight out of them all, as I am sure you know. Already his strength and will has been tested, but he has prevailed strongly thus far. I believe him to be a strong Hobbit of incredible resistance, though that has yet to be tested."

"Will it?" Duvaineth asked.

Aragorn shared a solemn glance with her. "Do you know of the council that is to assemble?"

"I do."

"Then I shall say this to you with all honesty and sincerity – I believe the decision of the council that determines what shall be done will bear no good just as it bears evil. What shall be decided, alas, I cannot say. I do not think even Lord Elrond himself knows. Either way, I fear for Frodo."

"Or worse. What he now bears with him is no mere trinket. It is as if Sauron is in his hand and he will use all power through the Ring to persuade him from his path."

"Indeed," Aragorn sighed.

Silence fell upon them but it did not last long, for Duvaineth let out a light chuckle. Aragorn looked at her, an eyebrow quirked. "What do you find amusing?'

"To think barely three weeks past I stood in the great halls of Théoden King in attendance to his feast."

His lips twitched, threatening to smile. "How did you find it to be?" Aragorn asked.

"It was most gracious. I should not forget his kindness unto me," she answered, "but little did it do upon my troubled soul, I am afraid. Yet I enjoyed it, nonetheless."

"I hope he knew so, for very strangely do you express yourself, my friend!" he jested, but then he grew serious and urged her eagerly. "Tell me of your time there. I wish to know."

And so Duvaineth relayed her tale to him, from the very beginning when they parted from each other to her encounter with the Marshall Éomer, nephew to Théoden King of Rohan, and her long recovery that followed. When she finished, Aragorn was astonished. "Little kindness do they speak of the Elves, if even a morsel is spared to be uttered from their lips. To be wholly welcomed in the home of Rohan's king, that is a favorable gain, one that will not be easily forgotten. That is a fair deed to accomplish, Meluiwen."

"Nay! Do not commend me. I need it not. I have done nothing to earn it. His House spared my life. All I did was give my best to my host, for he was indeed gracious and kind. He was deserving of all respect and so I gave it, no less than any of mine own kin would have done."

"That may be so," Aragorn said, "but you as well have shown a quality to the Men of Rohan they thought not the Elves have. Wary they may have remained-"

"Their reasons amusingly so."

"Perhaps," Aragorn laughed, "but they have not had dealings with the fair folk and only know of them through rumors that are spoken more rancorously than truthfully. The character that you have shown will leave an impression upon them of your kin henceforth. May they openly welcome you, or if not, may they inwardly think differently as they mayhap first thought, but that is unknown. I believe now they have at least a mere glimpse of a true Elf, who hardly mirrors what the tales say."

"It is a pity, though, that I did not come across one in the forest before I came to Enedwaith," Duvaineth said, as she leaned back in her seat and took a sip from her goblet of wine.

Aragorn smiled. "Is that so? Pray tell, why is that?"

"Admittedly..." Duvaineth trailed off as the thought entered her mind. She looked at him and grinned. "As wary and fearful as they are for the rumors to be true of Elves possessing the power to place whomever they desire under a dark spell, I would have enjoyed far too much a game of frightening them as they camped for the night."

It was not long after a silence fell between them and Duvaineth had shifted her attention to the chatter around her, listening to the tales and memories of old shared by those that had them. Many who sat among them had once or numerously before heard most tales, Duvaineth herself included, but there were a few she had yet to hear and she listened attentively. From the corner of her eye she saw two of the Hobbits present were listening eagerly, leaning forward in their seats and their eyes wide and full of awe. But as the tales came to an end, the elleth took notice that one of them – Frodo Baggins, she believed it was as she recalled Aragorn's quiet introduction – now had his eyes upon her and was looking at her with genuine curiosity and wonder. It was not until she turned her head and looked at him that the Hobbit realized he had been caught, and flushed.

A smile threatened her lips. "Who do they call you, small one?" she asked.

He gazed at her again and was silent, as if his tongue had been tied. "Frodo Baggins," he said at length, the color of his cheeks having now returned to a normal color. "Forgive my staring. I don't believe I have yet seen you before."

"No, you would not have, for I had returned before your arrival. It is a pleasure all the same to make your acquaintance, Frodo Baggins. I hear you bore an ill and heavy wound upon your arrival. How do you fare?"

"Better, I will say, though I still remain a bit sore," Frodo answered. "I feel very much at peace in Master Elrond's home than I have been for a very long time, it feels."

"Good. That is well to hear."

Brief was their exchange, though it left Frodo wondering. He hummed quietly as he munched on a fruit, his eyes cast down on his plate. He felt the elleth's eyes on him as if they were piercing through to his very soul, but he could not find the strength to raise his own to her. The feeling soon passed, but his eyes remained on the table in front of him. Duvaineth left him to his thoughts and soon turned to her own, every now and then picking up a piece of a story that was being told. Laughter throughout the hall, loud and joyful, and the chatter just as much so, if not mayhap louder, showing no sign of coming to an end. The night was still young. Duvaineth wondered what it might hold for them all, and as she looked around her, she felt very certain it would be far from dull.

* * *

**Author's Note:**

**I wanted to address a quick note in the chapter. I know you may have cringed at the conversation between Duvaineth and Gandalf where she agrees to come to the council. First and foremost, she is NOT and will NOT be a mary-sue. I have ready many stories where a female character attends the council without any purpose or reason. Duvaineth does have a purpose. With the little information you have about Duvaineth and her past – which will be revealed more and more within the next few chapters – her own experience with Rohan is worthy to be noted in the council, I would like to believe. The ill influence of Théoden King and the danger Rohan is actually in should Saruman succeed in what he is trying to do is a big issue, and will eventually lead to the main plot. I understand how Duvaineth will look attending the council, a risk I am willing to take, but do know that Duvaineth is not attending it simply because I want her to or that she is a mary-sue. Far from it!**


	11. The Council

At length, when all had eaten and drank and had their filling, the feast came to an end. Elrond rose and went down the hall and the company followed in due order. The doors were thrown open and they went across a wide passage and through other doors, entering into a further hall. In it were no tables, but a bright fire was burning in a great hearth between the carven pillars upon either side. Behind her, Duvaineth heard the voices of Gandalf and Frodo. "This is the Hall of Fire," the Wizard said. "Here you will hear many songs and tales - if you can keep awake. It usually stands empty and quiet, save on high days, and people come here who wish for peace and thought. There is always a fire here, all the year around, but there is little other light."

"It feels rather peaceful," Frodo remarked, "as if a great wave of warmth flows over even the most chilling coldness."

"Indeed!" Duvaineth said without turning to look at him. "Here you will find a comforting silence to indulge in as you weigh on your heavy mind, if it is what you seek. If you cannot find peace in the home of Lord Elrond, it is then you have me at a great loss, for I know of no other place to offer such warmth and calmness."

"I do not think there is," Frodo said honestly, "aside from the fine comforts of my home in the Shire, of course."

"But of course, Master Baggins." The elleth nodded in agreement. "It is your home, no less than Imladris is mine. And what dwelling would bestow unto you greater comfort than such a place?"

As they filed in the hall, Duvaineth saw Elrond already near the seat that was prepared for him. Elven minstrels, their instruments already eagerly held in hand, began to make the sweet music she had long missed during her absence. However, Elrond was no longer where she had last seen him and now stood at the end of the fire by a small, dark figure. He was seated on a stool with his back propped against a pillar and looked to be asleep, his cloak drawn over his face. "Awake, little master," he said, with a smile. Then, turning to Frodo, he beckoned to him. "Now at last comes the hour you have yearned for, Frodo. Here is a friend you have long missed."

The dark figure shifted with a disgruntled scoff, sitting up straight. He removed his cloak. Suddenly, Frodo cried out with joy and sprang forward. "Bilbo!"

"Hullo, Frodo, my lad! So you have arrived at last. I hoped you would manage it. Well, well! So all this feasting is in your honor, I hear. I hope you enjoyed yourself?"

"Why weren't you there? And why haven't I been allowed to see you before?"

"Because you were asleep. I have seen a good deal of you. I have sat by your side with Sam each day. But as for the feast, I don't go in for such things much now. And I had something else to do."

"What were you doing?"

"Why, sitting and thinking. I do a lot of that nowadays, and this is the best place to do it in, as a rule. Wake up, indeed!" Bilbo said, cocking an eye at Elrond. "Wake up! I was not asleep, Master Elrond. If you want to know, you have all come out from your feast too soon and have disturbed me in the middle of making up a song. I was stuck over a line or two, and was thinking about them; but now I don't suppose I shall ever get them right. There will be such a deal of singing that the ideas will be driven clean out of my head. I shall have to get my friend the Dúnadan to help me. Where is he?"

"He shall be found," Duvaineth intoned with a smile. "He ought not to be far. If I know him better than myself, I would profess him to be lurking somewhere in the shadows."

"Ah." Bilbo nodded. "Good then, good then. He is around. That is well."

"Indeed he is! There is no need to search for him, for he is here." Aragorn suddenly appeared, smiling down at the Hobbit. "A song, I hear? I am curious as to what ditty Bilbo Baggins has conceived next!"

"Ah!" Bilbo cried. "There you are at last, Dúnadan!"

Bilbo continued speaking, but Duvaineth did not hear him. She turned away as she began to hear the melody of the Elven minstrels more clearly, for their stringed instruments were strummed and pipes blown, and in their descants were such harmony and yearning that strands of the Song seemed to manifest in their uplifted voices that carried fair and high to the far reaches of the hall. It was nigh a balm upon Duvaineth's ears, that palliative luxury given only in the grace of Imladris. And many stood by and listened, marveling at the words woven from their tongues. Gandalf joined her and stood with her silently for a while. "How find you this evening?" he asked her.

"Peaceful," she replied, and she said nothing else. No other answer was needed.

"Relish in it, then. I fear a time comes when we will feel very little of it, even here in Imladris."

"You stand not alone in such a foreboding, for I too feel it. But I wish not for it. Tell me I am wrong, Mithrandir."

"If I did…" The Wizard paused to regard her with a solemn gaze. "Then I would be speaking a falsehood, and I will not have it said Gandalf the Grey speaks lies."

She smiled, though it was sour. "I thought as much."

Duvaineth returned her eyes to the minstrels. To her left she caught a glimpse of Frodo and his companion sitting together, speaking to each other with soft voices as they heard the singing of the Elves. Lady Arwen sat not far away, though distant she seemed. When she caught Duvaineth's gaze, she smiled warmly at her and gracefully nodded her head in greeting, which the elleth returned deferentially and placed a hand over her heart. Several moments passed and the air in the company of the Wizard was silent. He looked rather thoughtful the entire time until he spoke, surprising the elleth at his side with the quietness of his tone. "Pray tell me, Duvaineth…before your encounter with the Warg-riders along the borders of Rohan, did you perchance pass Isengard?"

Duvaineth furrowed her eyebrows as she thought back. Her confusion did not go unnoticed by Gandalf, but he ignored it. "No, I did not. I weighed on the thought to for a moment, but I decided to move from the west, and go east." She looked at him. "Why?"

"Oh, there is no reason," Gandalf was quick to answer. "Simple curiosity, you could say."

She thought it strange, but did not think much on it. The night continued on, growing late by the passing hour, and Duvaineth's lively mood soon waned into weariness. A small number had already left; Gandalf was nowhere to be seen, nor could she see Frodo or Bilbo, and she did not recall seeing Aragorn take his leave, but he also was not in sight. Deciding to take her own leave, she turned and walked towards the doors and as she reached them, a voice behind her drew her up short. "Leaving for the evening, are you?"

She turned and smiled at Elrond. "I am afraid so. You know well I would gladly stay and hear the songs of my kin, whether of joy or otherwise, but I now grow weary."

"Indeed, and I am glad you stayed as long as you have," Elrond said. "You have been missed and I have not yet received the chance to welcome you back. But long was your journey, I doubt not. Gandalf tells me you will attend the council?"

She nodded. "Yes. Surprised I was to hear you have openly offered me a seat, though I am grateful, nonetheless. However, and this I say to you with all the respect in my heart, I believe fully my presence is needless and wish you had not named me as a member of the council."

"Needless I would say not!" Elrond protested. "The council to come greatly concerns the matter of Sauron and his power. It concerns you as much as it does all the Free Peoples of Middle-earth. You endured much in your torment, yet you stand here before me free from the clutches of his dark will. I say you have rightfully earned a chair on the council."

Duvaineth lowered her head and tightly clutched her chest. "Thank you, my lord," she breathed, overwhelmed by his words. "Although I feel I do not deserve it, I will accept it, however reluctantly, and even if I must hear words that my heart desires not to hear. If I may help in this war against Sauron, then gladly will I do so."

"And with that, I bid you sleep!" Elrond said. "Go now and rest, Duvaineth, for you will have much need of it come tomorrow."

With that, Duvaineth left the great hall and sought her sleeping chambers, for verily she was worn and feared falling asleep while standing. As she walked through different archways and reached the long corridor leading to her chamber, Duvaineth smiled to herself as she still could hear the beautiful songs sung by the minstrels.

Oh, blessed Imladris! Duvaineth thought to herself benevolently, how dearly I have missed you so!

When Duvaineth rose the next morning, a feeling of dread had long swept over her. The upcoming council did not fill her with joy, nor did she take comfort in it. It would be a long day, she gathered; a day filled with ill tidings and a difficult decision to reach an answer to an unfavorable question. Alas, she supposed it was best to now deal with the matter. By each day the world grew all the more perlious to tread. Alas! What of the council? Duvaineth wondered. Would they come to a decision when Lord Elrond and Gandalf had failed to come upon an agreement, and if the council failed as well, would they keep the One Ring in hiding? What would become of it? Would it be kept underneath the Dwarvish craft, or perhaps sealed behind doors by Elvish words? Or would it remain in Imladris if no decision can be reached?

Nay. It would not. The Lord of Imladris was wiser than to allow such a decision. He knew well of the dangers of keeping Sauron's trinket in the land. The knowledge of the Ring would soon come to Sauron, if he did not know already. He would stop at nothing to retrieve it. No realm – not even Imladris – would be able to withstand Sauron, no matter how strong or great in number they may be.

She could only wonder what they might discover today.

When she arrived to the place of meeting, the courtyard of the Last Homely House, Duvaineth saw already that a few had arrived. Among them were Aragorn and Lord Elrond. Gandalf was not yet there. Aragorn stood with the Elf-lord not far from where the members of council sat, deep in discussion, when he suddenly turned and looked at her. He was again dressed in his green and brown leathers. "Ah!" he cried. "You are here. I was wondering about you."

"It is yet early," she replied.

"It is," Aragorn concurred, "but Lord Elrond wished to speak with you prior to the council, if he could."

"Certainly." Duvaineth raised her gaze to Elrond.

The Elf-lord nodded and stepped forward. He cleared his throat. "I trust you slept well. Come. There are some faces you must familiarize yourself with that are important to know for when they speak and you hear their words." He then beckoned her to him and pointed out to her many faces, all of which she had not yet seen before, or if she did last night then her memory of them was very vague, and she wondered of their affairs. There was a younger Dwarf among his kin, Gimli. There was also an Elf clad in green and brown, and seated a little apart was a tall Man with a fair and noble face, dark-haired and grey-eyed, proud and stern of glance. Beside Glorfindel there were several other counsellors of Elrond's household, of whom Erestor was the chief; and with him was Galdor, an Elf from the Grey Havens who had come on an errand from Círdan the Shipwright.

Círdan. The name was well known to Duvaineth. "Yes, I know of Lord Círdan," she said. "He is...very wise, indeed. My encounter with him was brief and, though bitter sadness it brings me to recall it, he shared with me quite sagacious words when I was in great need of it."

"Right you were to have listened to his counsel," Elrond said, "for it bears guidance and few receive it."

"Even so, I wish he had given me a different answer."

Elrond smiled sadly. "That is often a desire."

"Too often, I should say. But let us pay no mind to that drear subject. Is there more I need to know, or will I hear of it amid the council?"

"I believe that is to come – today – in due time." Gandalf appeared then, staff in hand. "My, are you not a sight!"

"Do not bother!" Duvaineth laughed. "I am hardly one for compliments. I will say, however, I better prefer trousers and boots than a dress."

It was a beautiful dress, she would not deny that, though simpler were the women's attire of the Rohirrim. The undergown she wore was of figured silk dyed in a blue reminiscent of an unclouded sky, with sleeves loose about her wrists and the neckline embroidered with gold ivy leaves. Over this she wore a sideless surcoat of a darker blue, the hem bordered with a wide fold of gold trimming and hanging off the shoulder to reveal the decorated neckline of the undergown. And the bodice of the overgarment was of sheared sable, over which a heavily embroidered belt of white and silver girded her waist and stretched down the length of the frock. Strangely, however, Duvaineth did not quite feel like herself garbed so elegantly. She felt as if she were an Elf-maiden of Imladris, one of Lord Elrond's kin. She could say quite so that she was not.

It was not long after that all came and were seated. Not all that was spoken and debated in the council need now be told. Much was said of events in the world outside, especially in the South, and in the wide lands east of the Mountains. Of these things most have already heard many rumors. But it was new to Duvaineth and she knew very little of the passing troubles brought upon the different regions of Middle-earth. The tale of Glóin was especially new to her, for little was her knowledge and involvements with Dwarves, and when he spoke Duvaineth listened attentively. His tale was of great length; he spoke of Moria and the Dwarf Balin's brave return with an expedition nigh thirty years ago, and naught a word having since been received. He also spoke of dark horseman coming to the gates of King Dáin in the Lonely Mountain at the behest of "his Lord Sauron", as he said, seeking news or perchance the whereabouts of a Hobbit, and in return a reward would be bestowed upon them. Twice he had come before his gates seeking answers and receiving none, and had forewarned he would come again and lastly for a third time, before the year ends.

"You have done well to come," Elrond said. "You will hear today all that you need in order to understand the purposes of the Enemy. There is naught that you can do, other than to resist, with hope or without it. But you do not stand alone. You will learn that your trouble is but part of the trouble of all the western world. The Ring! What shall we do with the Ring? That is the doom that we must deem. That is the purpose for which you are called hither. Now, therefore, things shall be openly spoken that have been hidden from all but a few until this day. And first, so that all may understand what is the peril, the tale of the Ring shall be told from the beginning even to this present. And I will begin that tale, though others shall end it."

The tale of the One Ring was not foreign to Duvaineth. She knew it rather well from the beginning with the forging of the Rings of Power and to the deception unto the Elves by Sauron in a fair guise, and what befell the lesser rings. There were some parts of the tale she had not yet heard and hardly blinked as she listened, yet she was not uneasy. Instead, she was intrigued by what was told. It was a long tale, of deeds both great and terrible, and although briefly Elrond spoke, the Sun rode up the sky, and the morning was passing ere he ceased.

Then a Man by the name of Boromir, one from Minas Tirith of Gondor, shifted anxiously in his seat and arose. He spoke of the realm that which he came from, and the tidings he ere endured against the servants of the Enemy before his departure, and the hard pressed beset against the Enemy. This saddened Duvaineth when she furthermore heard many were driven from Ithilien, a fair domain east of the River, though remained a foothold and strength of arms; yet this year in the days of June, sudden war came upon them out of Mordor, and they were swept away. She wondered how many more homes were laid to waste by the dark will of Sauron. How many more were driven from their households and slaughtered in wake? How many families were separated and broken?

"In this evil hour I have come on an errand over many dangerous leagues to Elrond," the Man said. "A hundred and ten days I have journeyed all alone. But I do not seek allies in war. The might of Elrond is in wisdom not in weapons, it is said. I come to ask for counsel and the unravelling of hard words. For on the eve of the sudden assault a dream came to my brother in a troubled sleep; and afterwards a like dream came oft to him again, and once to me.

"In that dream I thought the eastern sky grew dark and there was a growing thunder, but in the West a pale light lingered, and out of it I heard a voice, remote but clear, crying:

"Seek for the Sword that was broken:

In Imladris it dwells;

There shall be counsels taken

Stronger than Morgul-spells.

"There shall be shown a token

That Doom is near at hand,

For Isildur's Bane shall waken,

And the Halfling forth shall stand."

"And here in the house of Elrond more shall be made clear to you," Aragorn spoke suddenly, standing up. He laid his sword upon the table that stood before Elrond, and the blade was in two pieces. "Here is the Sword that was Broken!"

Boromir looked at him in wonder. "And who are you, and what have you to do with Minas Tirith?"

"He is Aragorn son of Arathorn," Elrond said, "and he is descended through many fathers from Isildur Elendil's son of Minas Ithil. He is the Chief of the Dúnedain in the North, and few are now left of that folk."

There was a movement, and suddenly Frodo spoke. "Then it belongs to you, and not to me at all!"

"It does not belong to either of us," Aragorn said, "but it has been ordained that you should hold it for a while."

"The time has come. Boromir will understand the remainder of his riddle. Bring out the Ring, Frodo," Gandalf said solemnly.

A terrible feeling fell over Duvaineth upon his words. Before she could realize the meaning of the Wizard's words, Frodo drew his hand into the pocket of his vest and brought out the one thing she had been dreading to look upon – the One Ring, and her wits left her. Fear swept over Duvaineth, as if a shadow hovered above them all; but it was a cloudless morning. Yet what she felt did not fade, and the shadow felt greater; darker. It was different. She felt as if she was ensnared under the moonless twilight sky. There was no light and the path before her was so dark that she could not see, and all hope left her. Her heart raced and her head spun, and she felt the slow burning of pain creeping up to her. Yet in darkness she stood not – she was underneath the Sun and was not alone, for next to her stood Elrond and around her many others, but the shadow upon her mind sought to convince her otherwise. It was as if a different side of her took hold. All she could feel was a haunting, darkening, painful shadow.

So much pain.

A voice whispered in her ear, promising her no escape. He spoke of her torments and scars, and the cold chains that once held her still as she was whipped without mercy. And suddenly – a searing pain burned her right breast. Duvaineth winced and clutched it. She gritted her teeth, trying to make little noise or movement to be seen or heard, but Elrond noticed. He looked at her with grave concern and sadness. An Elf next to her, Glorfindel, laid his hand on her and she felt warmth as the numbing coldness left her, and a sense of comfort fell over her and the shadow passed. But the pain remained. "Be at ease. You are safe here. No more can the Shadow harm you," Glorfindel said to her, his voice soft.

"I can feel him," she whispered, her breathing shallow. "I can feel everything."

"What is it you feel?" Glorfindel probed gently.

"My torments." She closed her eyes as if it hurt her to speak the words, taking a great effort for her to muster her voice. "I feel as if I am there in Barad-dûr again."

"You are no more in that dark place. That time has long passed. You will not come back to it," Glorfindel assured her. "Trust in my words. Breathe, I say, Duvaineth. You are no longer in the darkness."

For Duvaineth, it would have been easier for her to doubt his words. Her thoughts compelled her to do so. Nay! Lord Glorfindel would not lead anyone astray. He knew well and of many things that which concerned the Shadow. Duvaineth had no reason to doubt him. And just as the ill thought came, it then left – and her darkness was no more. Relief flooded over her like the rushes of a waterfall. But her peace was only brief, for then suddenly a shadow seemed to pass over the high Sun, and the porch for a moment grew dark. Gandalf stood, his voice unlike Duvaineth have ever heard it. It was menacing, powerful, harsh as stone, and she felt herself tremble. He spoke dark words – words she had not heard for three decades and had hoped she would never hear again. Her eyes fell to a tight close again, for now a different and more powerful, harsh feeling fell over her. Duvaineth clutched Glorfindel's arm and nearly toppled in her seat, who now had his arms around her. And then – Gandalf ceased, and the Sun appeared again, and she, among the entire council, felt no greater relief. But she was now beginning to feel very weary.

"Never before has any voice dared to utter the words of that tongue in Imladris, Gandalf the Grey," Elrond said disapprovingly.

"And let us hope that none will ever speak it here again," Gandalf answered. "Nonetheless I do not ask your pardon, Master Elrond. For if that tongue is not soon to be heard in every corner of the West." As if sensing the strain that was upon Duvaineth, Gandalf turned to her. His face, ere that had been hardened and his eyes unfamiliar, was now soft and his eyes somber, but his face was grave. He did not appear to be alarm by the state she was now recovering from. "Forgive me, my dear Elf. That brought me no lesser loathing than it did for you to hear it."

"Indeed, though I believe it is easier for one to utter it than it is to hear it," Duvaineth said. "Never again wished I to hear the Black Speech thirty-nine years ago, and that desire still remains!"

Gandalf smiled knowingly a little. He turned away from her and to another, and addressed to them an answer that they sought. Duvaineth let out a heavy sigh, looking down at her trembling hands. She clenched them tightly. It would be a long day, indeed, she deemed, and it was not yet noon.


	12. The Decision

**Author's Note: Don't throw things at me! I'm ALIVE! I promise!**

**I am SINCERELY SORRY for the great delay in my updates. Life had gotten hard for my beta-reader, so I patiently waited as she juggled both life and the duties of beta-reading. On the bright side, I have many future chapters written and ready for my beta-reader, so prepare to get an interesting treat within these next few chapters! However, I would like to get gushy for a minute and say a heartfelt thank you. I cannot express how much your support through the story so far means to me. I may not get many reviews compared to other authors, but I have a lot of favorites and alerts, and that says a lot. So thank you, for everything, and I hope you are still following me and _Scars_. The good stuff is now beginning and I promise you will not be disappointed. Or so I hope you won't be!**

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**As always my evermore, loving, and grateful thanks to my beta-reader, Gwedhiel.**

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* * *

It was some time before Duvaineth was herself again – or at least, how she felt ere the dark, strange occurrence happened to her, whatever that even was. She struggled for many moments. It seemed endless, but Glorfindel did not lessen his efforts to help her as he did before. At length, Duvaineth felt better again and leaned back into her chair, breathing a deep sigh. She hoped to never experience that feeling again. However, a part of her suspected that one day she would. Much time had passed since the One Ring was revealed to the company and had long been tucked back away in Frodo's vest pocket; he and Bilbo had long relayed their accounts that she failed to hear and now Gandalf stood telling his own account. Already she had missed nearly half of what he said but now listened as he spoke of Curunír's treachery and his own escape from the tower of Orthanc, and then to Edoras. Afterwards, Duvaineth heard nothing else. Her mind was troubled by the news and she now understood Gandalf's reason for his question last night.

Her mind dwelled heavily on Gandalf's tale. Curunír was now an enemy to them – a traitor! Anger burned within her like a wildfire. She wished now to take her bow and quiver of arrows and kill many Orcs. Valar, that Curunír was no longer an ally….Duvaineth could feel the beginnings of shock begin to course through her veins, making her lightheaded until deaf to anything Gandalf now said. To think Curunír could no longer be called upon, that he was gone and his counsel with him – his wisdom that was more a rarity in Middle-earth than the olden artifacts of Dwarves! She knew Curunír was not alone in these lands, that there were others of his ilk far afield and abroad, Gandalf being one of them, but still….Gandalf had spoken always so highly of that particular Wizard, so much so that the thought that he now stood at Sauron's right hand sent a shaft of pure terror through her. Valar, could no one be trusted anymore? Who could if Saruman could not? In that instance, if but for a brief moment, a fierce longing to be in the West instead of here smote Duvaineth as it never had before.

At great length, Gandalf's tale came to an end. "Well, the tale is now told, from first to last. Here we all are, and here is the Ring. But we have not yet come any nearer to our purpose. What shall we do with it?"

None gave an answer. Not even Elrond, who did not speak for some time. "This is grievous news concerning Saruman," he said, "for we trusted him and he is deep in all our counsels. It is perilous to study too deeply the arts of the Enemy, for good or for ill. But such falls and betrayals, alas, have happened before."

"It would be unwise to keep the Ring here or anywhere. It cannot linger in one spot for too long. It is far too unsafe and you will be beset by dangers until Sauron again has what he longs for," Duvaineth spoke, her voice quiet but loud enough for all to hear.

All eyes were upon her now. Many gazed at her with genuine curiosity. She had been quiet all throughout the day that they barely took notice of her presence. Elrond turned to her. "Duvaineth! You have yet to tell your tale."

Duvaineth's cheeks turned a light shade of red as she remembered her…that moment – that tremor and hoped none save for Glorfindel noticed. "I feel my tale has little importance."

"I beg to differ, nor have I yet to hear it. If it indeed concerns Rohan, then I would hear your tale. Saruman is no longer our ally and he dwells too closely to that land. If there is anything to be told, then speak it freely."

"Very well." Duvaineth rose from her seat and turned her eyes to the company. "Dark were my dreams and little did they permit me to sleep. I mayhap thought I would again find peace if I ventured far and wide. Alas!" Duvaineth sighed. "It was a desperate hope. Nigh two and a half months ago I departed Imladris and within a fortnight was in Enedwaith. There, I rode away from the east, for close was Rohan and I wished not to be near that land. Later in the day I was under assailed by Orcs on the backs of Wargs. I fled with all haste. That day before I had contemplated seeking Curunír's wisdom but decided against it and now, from what Gandalf has told of us of his betrayal, I cannot help but wonder if he orchestrated the assault, for it was sudden and Orc-riders are not particularly sighted in Enedwaith or along the borders of Rohan. However, my horse bore me into that land without my knowledge. I abandoned my steed and fought the Orcs but they bested me."

"You abandoned your horse," Elrond repeated in a murmur. "That was unwise. Wargs are known for their agility—"

"Precisely," Duvaineth interrupted, though not unkindly. "It is why I threw myself from her, so that mayhap she could live. In truth, I had hoped someone would find her and be led to me. Someone did indeed find her. It was Lord Éomer, Third Marshall of the Mark and nephew to Théoden King of Rohan, though his aid was a little too late. Come the time he arrived I was suffering a wound gangrenous with poison and the weapon embedded in me still. He brought me to Edoras where his sister healed me of my wounds and their king granted me leave to stay so that I might recover. Théoden King was a fine host to me; kind and gracious, and I shall ever be thankful to his House for sparing my life. However, there was something amiss, I felt. His Chief Counselor, Grima Wormtongue, was less solicitous. I cannot say for certain if my suspicion of him is true, nor would I make such a false and at equally large claim. All I can offer is that he had a foul look about him and now and then my thoughts worry for Théoden King in such company."

Duvaineth's eyes fell on Mithrandir. "The extent of Théoden King's kindness come the time of my departure from his lands, however, I cannot offer you. His presence had become scarce."

"That is fine. I suspect I came to Edoras well before your departure from that land," the Wizard said, nodding slowly as he furthered lingered in thought. "We cannot say for certain what has happened, if anything has. We should not speak of what we do not know, lest it be spoken in falsehood."

"Thank you, Duvaineth, for your tale," Elrond then said. "You may be seated as we dwell on this, and many of the other tales that we have heard today."

Duvaineth nodded and sat down, leaving many to dwell on her words. Elrond and Gandalf among them all were the most troubled. "We cannot hide the Ring, that much we know," Elrond said after a time. "Sauron already knows it has been found and he now ever searches for it tirelessly. He will not stop until he has it. Keeping it hidden would only spell doom. We have two choices set before us and I can see no other – we keep it hidden or we destroy it."

Silence filled the courtyard. No one argued, but no one agreed either.

"Destroying the Ring would be no easy task, nor would there be any assurance of success." Duvaineth sighed. "Who is to say it would succeed?"

"We cannot say for certain. That is unknown to me," Elrond said grimly. "It may succeed and see Sauron forever defeated, or we may fail and our world falls to darkness."

It was hardly a pleasant thought. "No matter what is decided, the risk is great and the road beset with many perils."

"Yes. Greatly so, but if we stand here now and choose to do nothing, our doom will come swifter with no effort needed on its part."

"Then…" Duvaineth paused. "It appears our choices are indeed laid before us – If we stay and keep it hidden, we shall perish and the world will fall. However, should we choose to try we may yet have a chance, though little and dangerous it seems."

"Those are our choices, I fear," Elrond said to the company. "What shall it be?"

Glances were shared, but no one spoke. It was Boromir who broke the silence, speaking quietly. "'I do not understand all this," he said. "Saruman is a traitor, but did he not have a glimpse of wisdom? Why do you speak ever of hiding and destroying? Why should we not think that the Great Ring has come into our hands to serve us in the very hour of need? Wielding it the Free Lords of the Free may surely defeat the Enemy. That is what he most fears, I deem. Let the Ring be your weapon, if it has such power as you say. Take it and go forth to victory!"

"Alas, no," Elrond answered, "We cannot use the Ruling Ring. That we now know too well. It belongs to Sauron and was made by him alone, and is altogether evil. Its strength, Boromir, is too great for anyone to wield at will, save only those who have already a great power of their own. But for them it holds an even deadlier peril. The very desire of it corrupts the heart."

Boromir bowed his head. "So be it," he said.

Silence followed. No one spoke. Duvaineth herself weighed heavily on what lay before the council. It was a trying decision and one never more dangerous, wherein the very fate of Middle-earth rested. Would they seek to destroy the One Ring, or would they keep it hidden?

A small figure moved out of the corner of her eye. Duvaineth turned her head and saw Frodo; he was shifting and looked to be deep in thought. And then his eyes met hers and in them shone a will greater than her own. It was hope. Frodo stood and spoke, though his voice was small at first. "I will take the Ring to Mordor; though, I do not know the way."

Duvaineth lowered her gaze, saddened. Her heart broke for the Hobbit. Alas! Such a heavy burden upon one so small. She knew a decision concerning the One Ring would have to be made, but she did not consider the decision would be made by the Ring-bearer himself, and to continue as its bearer.

"If I understand aright all that I have heard, I think that this task is appointed for you, Frodo; and that if you do not find a way, no one will," Elrond said. "This is the hour of the Shire-folk, when they arise from their quiet fields to shake the towers and counsels of the Great. Who of all the Wise could have foreseen it? But it is a heavy burden. So heavy that none could lay it on another. I do not lay it on you. But if you take it freely, I will say that your choice is right."

"But you won't send him off alone surely, Master?" a voice suddenly cried. Duvaineth looked on with amusement as another Hobbit came forth from the corner where he had been quietly sitting on the floor. She remembered him as Samwise Gamgee.

"No indeed!' Elrond intoned with gentle humor, turning towards him with a smile. "You at least shall go with him. It is hardly possible to separate you from him, even when he is summoned to a secret council and you are not. Then it is decided. Frodo Baggins, son of Drogo, will now bear the One Ring hence forth to Mordor, and cast it into the fires of Mount Doom."

It was with those words that the council came to an end and one by one those who had attended left, and now only a few remained. Aragorn had long left and Gandalf was nowhere to be seen, but Duvaineth stayed. She sat in her seat for a long while before rising, but before she could turn away and leave the courtyard Elrond approached her. "I am afraid that the council is not yet over and I still have need of your attendance, though among us will be a wise council. Will you not spare an hour with me and two others?"

The desperate need to rest clawed at her and showed in her face, thus the sympathetic look the Elf-lord turned on her. But Duvaineth never denied his requests, for if he had need of her then it surely was important. "Then I shall comply."

Elrond smiled, pleased. "There is a concern that has been brought to the Wise during the council, and we wish to come to an agreement as soon as possible."

Duvaineth nodded in answer and she followed his lead inside the Last Homely House and into his study. There, Gandalf and Glorfindel waited for them. Immediately, Duvaineth bowed her head deeply. "My lords."

Glorfindel returned the gesture and Gandalf smiled and nodded. Neither spoke, though they exchanged a glance or two. Her curiosity was growing as much as her patience was waning. "To what do I owe such an honorable summons?"

Gandalf answered her, though his words were not what she anticipated. "There was a concern that you would not come. I was not worried. I did not think you would deny Lord Elrond's summons."

"No, indeed?"

"You are too honorable to deny a lord."

She smiled. "I am his guest who he has graciously opened the doors of his home to," Duvaineth replied. "Any guest who denies their host is not wise or courteous."

"And such is why you earned the favor of Théoden King and his family during your stay!"

"Mayhap so," Duvaineth said, uncertain as to whether she agreed with such an assessment. "I would like to think there was more to it than that."

"There may be. From all that I have heard, I deem you had given them more than what was expected," Elrond said. He sighed. "Whether you were given a favorable reception or not is no concern, although I believe it will aid us. But we will address that in a moment. There remains a curious thing I would have you answer on. Lord Glorfindel tells me you reacted strongly to the presence of the One Ring and that it bode you no good. Is this true?"

Duvaineth hesitated. At length, she sighed and nodded her head. "Yes, I am afraid it is."

"What happened?"

"If I had a sure answer, I would readily speak it. Alas, I do not. I know not what happened. All was well, and then…I felt as if the presence of the Shadow was before me. It overwhelmed me. I felt pain and darkness and could not see my path, even though I sat underneath the Sun on a cloudless day among many others." Duvaineth shuddered at the memory. "Forgive me. I did not know that would happen, nor did I mean to draw eyes."

"I believe you are safe from it," Gandalf said. "Very few noticed. Among them were Glorfindel and I, and Aragorn."

"And I as well," Elrond added. "You need not ask for pardon. You were fortunate that Lord Glorfindel was there to help you."

"Yes, and I am deeply grateful for it as well." Duvaineth bowed her head at said Elf-lord.

Glorfindel merely smiled. "None in my company will be left to suffer darkness, if I can help it."

"I am honored to have been summoned to a quiet council among the Wise; however, I do not think you summoned me here to discuss my reaction to the One Ring, have you, my lord?" she asked Elrond, who shook his head.

"No. You are correct. I asked for your audience because of your account of your journey."

"You said there were concerns that were in need of counsel. What are these concerns?"

"The tale you weave of your time in Rohan is troubling," Glorfindel spoke, his voice filled with a subtle hint of dismay. "With Curunír's treachery and the Enemy gaining purchase in Rohan unto her king, I fear trouble awaits them. Much once unknown is unknown no longer, but I myself deem the people of Rohan will have need of aid. Should Théoden King also fall under the Enemy's sway, it would not be long before those wide lands yield to the dominion of Mordor."

"And they would be hard-pressed to maintain the war against Sauron."

"That is what we fear."

"But there is so little we yet know," Duvaineth countered. "My time in Rohan can indeed testify to any suspicion of threats arising in their lands, but much is hidden from us that we cannot discern."

Elrond nodded. "I cannot deny the truth of your words. We must know all we can before settling this. How may we do so, I wonder? Is there not one who could come and speak on this matter? Alas! So far away they are, yet I would hear the words of the Rohirrim themselves. But so greatly has their trust waned I do not think they would abide me."

"What of Aragorn?" Glorfindel suggested. "He once dwelled in their land under a different name and served Thengel, father of Théoden. He may have something to contribute."

Gandalf nodded in agreement. "A fair proposal. Aragorn may yet be able to shine some light unto the strength of the House of Eorl, and there we may see where our concern lies. If anything, we can learn of any possible changes developing between Isengard and the Gap of Rohan, or in other lands. That alone would aid us well."

"Very well," Elrond said. "Let us send for him and hear him."

It was not long before Aragorn answered the summons and came to their quiet council. His eyes met Duvaineth's, his interest peaked. He bowed his head, placing his hand upon his heart. "My lords, Mistress Duvaineth."

The polite gesture was returned, though Duvaineth merely smiled and slowly bowed her head. "Good evening to you, Aragorn," Glorfindel said with a smile. "Forgive the interruption. Oft your time here is brief and heavy have your toils been as of late. I do not wish to keep you long, though I thank you for your coming."

"It is a pleasure to come. It was no bother of mine," Aragorn answered, a soft tone to his voice.

Glorfindel then stepped forward and though he met Aragorn's questioning stare with another meager smile, his bright eyes were grave. "We seek your audience with hope that you may help us. A trying concern lies before us and we must come to a decision, yet in this hour we struggle, for we know too little. You once spent a time in Rohan under another name before you dwelt in Gondor. What can you say of the House of Eorl and the strength of Rohan?"

"I served his father for a time many years ago, yes, though Théoden was a mere child," Aragorn answered. "The House of Eorl, I believe, is strong and so is their king. However, if what Duvaineth said is indeed true, then mayhap Théoden King is in danger of yielding to the dark words whispered in his ear. I know not enough of him to say either yea or nay, but the Enemy is strong and the annals of my forefathers alone is telltale enough of the fault of Men. Or would the House of Eorl proclaim itself greater than that of Elendil? Théoden as any great king has my faith, but my faith is less in any Man to perpetually withstand the Shadow. In the dance of treachery and deceit, someone always stumbles and it is not the Enemy." It is with the end of his answer that Aragorn gave Elrond a meaningful look, a wry smile on his lips; but alit in his eyes was jest. "The annals of your own forefathers prove that well enough."

Elrond scowled, inciting a chuckle from Glorfindel.

Aragorn then turned to Duvaineth and all levity left his tone. "If this Grima Wormtongue is as deep in the counsels of Théoden as he claims to be, then I daresay he could accomplish much in time."

"Yes," Duvaineth said with a sigh. "I have an ill feeling about him. The very mention of his name makes me uncomfortable."

"I affirm what she speaks," Gandalf stated. "I saw him briefly during my time in Edoras. He is all but pleasant and was as unwelcoming just as his king was. I fear Grima's influence has already affected him."

"Thank you, Aragorn," Glorfindel said to the Man, resting a strong hand briefly on his shoulder. "We will dwell on your words. Now off with you. Seek out your rest again."

The Man nodded and he bowed before the Wise and Duvaineth and, giving her one last knowing smile, he turned and left. Gandalf sighed. "Then it is good we heard Duvaineth's tale and deemed a concern rising by the works of Evil."

"Indeed," Elrond said. "Now that it is known to us that Rohan does risk potential peril at the hands of our Enemy, we must now come to a decision." Elrond sighed. "We cannot let this go with little thought. If their king should suffer corruption, then there will be little hope to stand against Sauron. We will then lose an entire land of allies to his purpose."

"What might be done, then?" Duvaineth asked. "Little, I fear. It would take power to overcome the Evil that resides there. And surely Gandalf cannot offer his aid."

"No," Gandalf said solemnly. "He cannot. Yet hope is not lost! You can still yet deliver that task."

Duvaineth looked at him in surprise. Mayhap he had smoked too much from his pipe. "Me?"

"That is why you are here, although I must admit the reasons bear no good memories behind it." The Wizard offered a warm smile. "You can offer your aid to the Rohirrim, though I feel they would little accept it."

"What would then be the purpose?" Duvaineth asked, dismayed.

"Here is the purpose: You told me his son and nephew fight many Orcs and protect the borders and beyond in Rohan? Join in that fight! From what you told me before of your time in Rohan, it was the king's nephew who received you well, is that not true? I fear should Théoden King be held under the sway of Grima Wormtongue little will words of hope do, but there is much you can yet do. And though you know well of the capability a Mortal can weave with a dark tongue, it is not Théoden King I ask you to aid."

"I think I now understand. I shudder to think about how I came to have the knowledge I do," Duvaineth said darkly. "Keep Orcs at bay, I can do, if it will be accepted, though I fear there is very little I can do."

"I say not!" Gandalf argued. "You know of the ways of our Enemy. Your time in Barad-dûr, though long and painful, gave you this advantage. Use it."

"Well over half a yén I spent in Barad-dûr." Her eyes grew dark as she spoke. "I have little desire to remember what I beheld." She sighed heavily. "Alas! Such memories will never leave me. Nonetheless, if it would indeed help you, then so be it, though grudgingly I do it."

This pleased Gandalf. "You now bear friendships and a reputation in the House of Eorl. If unwilling you would use your own advantages bestowed upon you many years ago, then your friendship to the king would indeed benefit you. I cannot foresee another carrying out the task other than you."

"Nor I," Elrond said. "Your unfortunate defeat by the Orcs was no mere chance. I believe you have a part to play in the war and it lies with Rohan. Will you go?"

"If it is your will and you believe it to truly be my path, then what do I have to say against the wisdom of the Peredhel? For if I can assist in this war, then gladly I will."

"Then I task you with this: Go to Rohan and learn how they fare. If it is true what we believe, seek one who you can trust. I cannot promise you that you will be received well in Rohan, nor can I promise your offer of help will be accepted by any, but if the king's nephew received you so well as he did before, then he may do so again."

"However –" A shadow fell over Glorfindel's fair features. "There is yet another concern that we must address and you bear it around your neck."

Her hand came to her throat and lightly touched the pendant that rested there. "I deem it bodes an ill tiding."

"It does," Glorfindel answered sadly, "and it is here where we are conflicted. There may come a time where it will bring you trials, yet it would assist the Ring-bearer. You would risk Sauron's eye upon you, but he will also be distracted from Frodo for a time."

"I cannot remove it."

"Nor would we ask that of you."

"What would you have me do, then?"

"That, we cannot advise you, for it is yours and your own decision to make. The choice alone is yours and I will not lay it upon you," Elrond said. "Neither will I force it upon you. He may turn his attention on you and your days will grow darker. But Frodo would be unseen from his eyes and relieve him of danger for a time. Do I advise you to remove it? Nay, I do not, for truly it shall be your bane. However, keep it under the Sun; allow Sauron to look upon it. That is how you can help the Ring-bearer, if that is the choice you will make."

"The Quest for the Ring is of great importance. Middle-earth itself relies heavily upon its succession. It cannot afford to fail," Duvaineth said. "And because of that, I will do my part. I shall keep it in the open and use myself as a distraction if it is possible. His eyes will be upon me and not the Ring-bearer if I can help it. This, I swear to you."

They all smiled. "And I know you will uphold your word," Elrond said.

Duvaineth smiled daintily, though her heart felt heavy with worry. The pendant, she thought. It brought her no joy to wear it, nor would it bring her any joy to remove it. All it offered was a bitter reminder the worth of her life that weighed heavily on a small trinket, yet meaningless it was. Whenever she gazed upon it, she was filled with dread. Whenever she touched it, her fingertips were numbed. If asked she would remove it and never return it to her neck. The word only needed to be uttered and she would readily yield. But she knew it would not be so. Yet there came a cost at the removal of her pendant and deeper was the risk in keeping it on and in the very open.

Her very life.


	13. Chapter 13

"You cannot do this."

"It is my choice alone. I ask that you do not try to dissuade me."

Aragorn rubbed his forehead in frustration. The council within Lord Elrond's study had come to an end, although the Dúnadan's disagreement upon hearing the decision on the matter had not. Much like Duvaineth, Aragorn too frequently sought the wisdom of Lord Elrond and Gandalf, and heeded it. This time was different. Aragorn could not recall for how long he argued with Elrond, but it came swiftly as he relented and bowed his head. Aragorn knew when he had been trounced and would not furthermore challenge the decision, nor would he doubt Elrond. It did not sway Aragorn's displeasure on the matter. Yet he was not the only one concerned, for fond was Elrond of Duvaineth akin to a daughter; since her arrival too many years ago he had cared and looked after her and sought her comfort. Alas, regardless of his own affection for the elleth he also felt there was no other who could lend aid to Rohan, for advantages concerning the king were more likely to yield opportunity with her than any other who might set out bearing the task. Elrond felt she could give the king a keen influence, believed her path truly laid intertwined with Rohan and they would have need of her. And though she possessed no great ability of power or to heal, Duvaineth had something none did have. What it was, Aragorn knew not; the Elf-lord did not say.

And thus it came to an end. Nonetheless, it did not stay Aragorn's worry. If anything, it heightened it.

"Your life will be gravely threatened."

"Frodo's life will be gravely threatened, higher than mine will ever be. Would it then be different if I bore the Ring and not him? Would you allow me to go or hinder my steps?"

"I am fond of Frodo and it grieves me he must bear the Ring and see terrible evil that one should not see," Aragorn said grimly. A shadow was in his eyes. "But who else shall bear the Ring to Mordor that might withstand Evil? Frodo shows great resilience to it. I must confess I do not know if you could bear the mere touch of the Ring."

"No," Duvaineth said quietly. "I doubt I could. I fear the Ring would take hold of me. But this I must do. It is my decision unaided by anyone – even as Lord Elrond bestowed this task upon me. He gave me a choice. I shall do this because I now feel a purpose other than hiding within the safe walls of Imladris. Even Imladris can be so safe for only so long." She reached forward and rested a gentle hand on his shoulder, her dark eyes soft and looking deeply into his own. "I am tired of hiding, Estel."

"You will suffer." His voice was soft and hushed, nigh a whisper.

"It will come to more than that," the elleth affirmed softly. "It would be no different if I were to remove the pendant. My life will wane from me until naught is left. Mayhap worse. Mind, body, and soul, it will fade." And yet, even as she spoke such ill-boding words, she smiled. "But I am not afraid."

Aragorn looked in her eyes and saw different than what she claimed. "My dear friend, do not speak false words just to reassure me. You are afraid. Mayhap more than you have ever been."

"Perhaps I am trying to reassure myself as well. Are we not all afraid? One may speak words from his lips as he wishes, but only he really knows the truth in his heart." Duvaineth sighed. "I would not have you concern yourself so heavily about my well-being. You have endured much already. Even the great need their rest. Am I afraid? Of course I am, but there is no one who has more fear than Frodo himself. In my task I am joyful. My fear will not dissuade me from my purpose."

Aragorn said nothing. He remembered the words of Lord Elrond just shortly ago. "I do not wish to lay this upon her, for I do not know her fate and she has suffered enough in her lifetime. Young she is, having not even seen a thousand summers. Who else could go in her stead? She bears many advantages that whoever should go before her would not. She has the friendship of Théoden King and his household. Whoever else might go before her would need time to gain the favor of the king, time that cannot presently be afforded. I understand your sorrow, for I too feel it and I wish there could be another, but Duvaineth is best in this situation. Strength still lies in her. She may yet be able to overcome the effect the pendant has over her."

"Your task is important. That I cannot deny, but I also will not deny my fear for you," Aragorn said. "For verily I think your life is more of value than to know any dolor of this quest."

"What life do I live, if it is one at all?" Duvaineth asked. "Sometimes I hardly feel I am alive. Deep is my pain that I cannot breathe and heavy is my sorrow that I cannot think. The darkness of Mordor I no longer remain in, yet I am still tormented worse than ever before. The whipping and stretching of my body and drawing of my blood just for mere play were less painful than how I now suffer. I cannot go into the West. I cannot sleep. I am but a shattered soul. I am nothing now, Aragorn."

He looked sad. "Nay! Do not grieve for me," Duvaineth added. "I have been given a chance to fight in this war; to return to Sauron what he gave me, to do good and not ill unto those who are before me. If my death will contribute to this war and help in Sauron's defeat, then so be it. I will take gladness in it."

Aragorn said nothing after that. He bowed his head in defeat. He lifted his hand and rested it on her own that still touched his shoulder, and he took it and held it between both of his hands and squeezed them. He looked at her with a gaze only a brother truly could. "And no more shall I disagree on this matter. Lord Elrond has spoken, as have you. I have little power to persuade you otherwise and wrong would it be of me as a friend to continue the hopeless pursuit. Forgive me."

But Duvaineth shook her head. "You need not apologize; there is nothing to forgive you for. You spoke with selfless concern from your heart. I fault you not," she said softly. "And may it be one day that you and I will stand together in joy and not with despair or fear, or a shadow threatening to fall upon us. Verily, I hope you and I both shall go with a lightly burdened heart." Yet she could not foresee that. She did not know what waited for them beyond the borders of Imladris. Would it be danger, or would it be a lighthearted path? She very much doubted the latter.

Aragorn left with a heavy heart and Duvaineth watched on. Perhaps then they might see the destruction of Sauron. But it was only a dream in Duvaineth's thoughts. Shortly after, she sought sleep. Her mind and body were heavily worn from the events of the council, neither having been pleasant nor comfortable. However, even as she laid her head down, sleep did not come so easily. She tossed and turned at great length before falling into a very light slumber. Come the morning, Duvaineth discovered a small number of scouts had been sent from Imladris to deem if the road was safe. They would scour every league before them, seeking the assistance with the Rangers of the North and the Mirkwood Elves, and seek any evidence they could find that might alert them of the Black Riders' presence or trail. Shortly after, another group of scouts were sent; among them were Aragorn and the sons of Elrond.

"It will be some time before we will hear word of how our roads may look, and even longer our decisions will be delayed," Gandalf had said to her. "Go and be at ease. Find what peace and comfort you may indulge in. It will be some time."

At the time she had been pleased to hear she would remain in Imladris for some time, weeks even. Now, she rather disliked the thought. The sooner they could embark on their journey, the closer they drew to Sauron's defeat. She was thinking too rashly, however. A feat as such could not be won through haste. And so, Duvaineth waited and sought to pass time. She found that to be difficult. Many thoughts ran through her mind and little could distract her save for a good book. There was only one place that could truly unweigh her troubles – the terrace. Seldom was it occupied and it was an ideal place to sit and read, or to simply rest from burdened thoughts. Duvaineth decided to seek the comfort it always gave that evening and to her surprise she found another had come there and quietly sat in the soothing silence of Imladris. It was Galdor, the Elf from before who was introduced to her as one from the Grey Havens, having come on errand for Círdan the Shipwright.

Galdor was quick to sense another presence and raised his head with a smile. "Ah," he said, "so I am not the only one who favors to dwell in silence under the setting Sun."

"No, I should say not," Duvaineth replied. "Forgive my intrusion. I did not think another would be here and I meant not to disturb you. I can leave you be if you wish—"

Before she could finish, the Elf silenced her. "Of course not," Galdor said. "Come! Sit with me. You are quite welcome to. We are guests in Lord Elrond's home and I claim no seat mine. Company would brighten my mood."

"Very well." Duvaineth bowed her head respectfully and joined the Elf-lord upon the wide bench. A long moment of silence lingered between them. It was not until a little while that Duvaineth remembered from whence he hailed and whose errand he carried. "I understand you come from Lindon."

"Indeed I do."

"How do you find Imladris thus far?"

"Very well," Galdor answered. "It is a beautiful realm and Lord Elrond has been a fine host. I will say that Imladris is a place where I would take great joy in prolonging my stay."

A dainty smile tugged at the elleth's lips. "Yes, I believe you would take such joy here. Imladris has been my home for many a year and I cannot foresee any other place in Middle-earth that I would call home."

"Indeed?" Galdor wondered out loud. "Do you then hail from Lord Elrond's realm?"

Duvaineth laughed and shook her head. "If only! No, I do not. I was born in Lindon."

"Ah! You then should know of the land wherein Lord Círdan dwells."

"Yes," she nodded. "I know of Círdan the Shipwright. I met him once many years ago. He was very kind to me, and wise."

"He is wise indeed, and his counsel more so. But very few receive it and fewer understand his meaning, opting rather to tread their ways with his words."

Duvaineth knew well of Círdan's counsel. She had once come to the Grey Havens, and there he spoke words to her that her heart needed to hear, though grieved it was when she left his company.

"Mistress?"

Galdor's voice etched with thick concern drew the elleth from her reverie. She blinked twice, looking at him, and forced a smile. "Forgive me, my lord," Duvaineth said. "I was merely thinking."

The days passed slowly. In truth, Duvaineth did not realize how long it had been since the departure of the scouts, for so heavy she dwelled on her thoughts that she hardly paid any care to the days. To say she often wandered amidst her boredom, however, would be a lie. The elleth spent a great length of her time befriending few of whom attended the council. Those who Duvaineth could remember, that is. There was Boromir of Gondor, a proud but kind and courteous Man, one who indeed cared deeply for his home. Another was Gimli son of Glóin, a Dwarf. She met him one morning when she decided to take a stroll and found a bench to rest on a short while later. Gimli, too, was sitting there. He acknowledged her presence but said nothing.

"For a Dwarf in an Elven realm you are very quiet," Duvaineth had said, glancing at him from the corner of her eye. "Have you little to say?"

He huffed as he shifted and hesitated, but he was not unkind. "I care not for this place. My home of mines and rocks and smaller houses offer more comfort than what your Elvish home can."

"Indeed," Duvaineth smiled. "I hear many great and wondrous things about the realms of the Dwarves. And it is there your home lies. I cannot fault your words, for I myself will say the very same of other lands that is not my home."

Gimli looked at her. He decided he liked her. Her voice was soft and held a kind tone, nor did she offer any impudent words. "You are interesting and not alike your kin. What do they call you, lass?"

"Duvaineth, Master Dwarf. They call me Duvaineth. Whom do I have the divine pleasure in speaking to?"

"Gimli." He smiled, wide and true, where ere his expression aside a dour frown had been hidden beneath his beard. "I am Gimli son of Glóin."

"Well, Gimli!" Duvaineth returned the gesture. "Tell me of your home and I shall tell you what I have heard. Perhaps I will learn more about your kin!"

He was a pleasant company, Duvaineth thought, one that the Elves strongly overlooked. She knew of the grievances that occurred between King Thranduil of Mirkwood and Thorin Oakenshield of the Erebor, and though such event has faded many years ago, she could not place fault upon either kin for their grudges. It affected Duvaineth not and she would befriend any Man, Dwarf, Hobbit, or Elf, regardless of past involvements. Aside from meeting Boromir and Gimli, she also met the Elf Legolas, son of King Thranduil, a skilled archer and wielder of many tales of their kin. Lastly, there was Frodo Baggins and his companions. She found herself rather fond of them. Most curious they were, but also very pleasant to be with. She often found her sprits lifted in their presence and was often invited to join them for a snack or to enjoy a cup of tea with them. Today was no different and Duvaineth found herself sitting with Frodo in the courtyard that held Elrond's council. Bilbo had joined them as well, but he was more thoughtful than any other day and hardly paid mind to their conversation as he dwelled on a song he was attempting to create.

"How fares your wound, Master Baggins?"

"It is much better. I can feel my arm once more and it has healed," Frodo said, the relief in his voice unmistakable.

Duvaineth smiled. "That is good to hear. You bore a very foul wound and are fortunate that you still remain. A wound delivered by a Morgul Blade is indeed an ill thing."

"Do you know of the Morgul Blade, then?" Frodo asked, surprised.

"Indeed I do, though greatly I wish I do not," the elleth answered. "Yet I do, I am afraid, and I can say that there are not many that live who have suffered such a wound."

Frodo nodded thoughtfully but remained silent. At length he spoke. "Sometimes…" He stopped, trailing off, but when he saw the encouraging look Duvaineth gave, he continued. "Sometimes I feel…a sensation of pain. I will not say it is minor; it is rather unpleasant, but it is brief. I can only think it was caused by my wound. Will the pain ever fully go away, do you think?"

"No," she answered simply. "I cannot say that it will fully go away, nor will you feel it frequently, I believe. A wound as such from a Morgul Blade you never truly heal from, even if the evil of that wound is gone. You will bear it all through your days."

"How do you know all of this?"

Duvaineth paused. It was a question she dreaded to hear and had hoped it would not come to light. Alas for Hobbits, ever so curious they were! Frodo waited patiently for her answer, but he did sense her discomfort and feared he had offended her. But she smiled and spoke. "I cannot say, for my answer is rather dark and I wish not to bestow upon you a dreary heart in the House of Lord Elrond. You are here to rest and have peace, not to hear darkness. But know what knowledge I have is used for good, and never otherwise."

"Hmph!" Bilbo huffed, having been silent for many moments with his head tilted down and his attention far away. But now he was interested in speaking. "For good! Knowledge of any manner can be used for good or evil. It only depends on how you will use it."

"You speak truthfully," Duvaineth said with a smile. "Tell me, how is your song coming along?"

"Not very well, I am afraid," Bilbo admitted. "But who can tell when the both of you only speak of ill tidings? Talk about something…joyful!"

"What may we speak of that is joyful?"

"Oh, I don't know. Perhaps about trees, or the weather! Or a victory in battle."

"I daresay my recent travels in Rohan bear no inspiration for you, my friend." The elleth recalled the rather disconsolate and disdainful look the Hobbit bore when she relayed her tale of her time in Rohan.

"Hmm. No! No. That won't do at all," Bilbo sighed.

"What of the Shire? You could write of your home!" Duvaineth suggested.

"Ah!" the Hobbit cried. "That is a fair idea, indeed! I shall try. Perhaps you will compose a song one day, Mistress Duvaineth."

"That I am not certain of! I would have little to write, and perhaps all too dark and depressing."

"Nonsense!" Bilbo scoffed. "I am sure you have a take or two you can relay into songs."

"I do," Duvaineth said, "but I fear they may be too long as well."

"Bah! Length. Such a funny word. It is a restriction! I will not have it be said that Bilbo Baggins was delayed from his work because of length."

Duvaineth smiled to herself. She could not help but feel adoration for the Hobbits. She shuddered to think that any of them should know Evil. Yet out of them all, Duvaineth worried for Frodo. She knew not where his path would lead, only that it would not be an easy one. But she had seen the Hobbit's strength and she knew Frodo would withstand the evil laid out before him. She believed in him.

The time soon came for Duvaineth to depart from the Hobbit's company. Greatly did she enjoy them and she found her spirits to be lifted. Seeking a brief rest before the evening bell would sound, Duvaineth returned to her sleeping chambers. A bright gleam quickly caught her attention. Upon a small table in the center of the room sat the Elvish blade and all joy left her. It was a strange weapon, Duvaineth thought. So small yet so capable of a deceptive power amidst a battle. Although Duvaineth eagerly anticipated the wisdom of Lord Elrond, she also hesitated. The ability the blade possessed made her uneasy. What else would she discover? Even so Duvaineth knew she could not keep it from Lord Elrond's knowledge, for it was of Elvish make and it could very well be of importance and his counsel was indeed needed. Come the early morning, Duvaineth rose and sought out Elrond. Where he was, she knew not, but she had a good notion. She began her search for him in his study and was unsurprised to find him there, his attention keen and unmoving as he looked through a tall shelf of tomes and lore.

Duvaineth made little sound as she entered the large study. Despite this, her presence was still sensed. The Elf-lord paused, his finger rested on the spiral of a book. "You rise early this morning. You sleep later than this."

"I have much on my mind."

"That is not foreign to us." Elrond turned to her with a smile. "Come! Tell me. What troubles you?"

Duvaineth said nothing. She merely held up the Elvish blade with both her hands, its edge shining brightly underneath Anor's light. Elrond gazed upon it with heavy surprise and he drew closer to her. "This is beautiful craftsmanship," he quietly mused as he lightly ran his fingers over the blade. "It is very thin and small but finely whetted. It has been well taken care of." He then turned his attention to Duvaineth. "But you sought me out not for praise of a mere blade."

"Tell me it is not of evil make."

"It is not," Elrond answered. "Though it is indeed a curious thing, most of which you have wondered. The look in your eyes is not so unknown to me as it is to others. But I do reassure you that this blade is of our make, for I know well the craft of my kin."

"It has an abnormal ability," Duvaineth told him, feeling somewhat relieved. "It can exact a wound without inflicting pain. I thought it strange when I first discovered a wound I received but had felt nothing. I thought mayhap it was due to the excitement of battle, but once I had calmed I tested it on my own hand and indeed, I felt no pain."

"You came across this in the possession of an enemy, then." Elrond nodded thoughtfully. "I am beginning to understand. I believe your path does indeed lie with Rohan."

"I do not understand," Duvaineth said, confused.

"This is Galnarthan, Beacon of Light. It once belonged to a queen of Rohan many years ago. I know very little of the story and cannot offer you much I am afraid, other than the sword was meant to wear down their enemies. When injured upon the battlefield, you either succumb to death or you bear your hurts until help is given, for you feel too much pain to move yourself. It is not so with this blade. You feel nothing, though the injury would further weaken you as any wound. My guess is that it was intended to give hope to Rohan and their Queen."

"Peculiar indeed," Duvaineth murmured.

Elrond returned the sword to her. "I would take this with you when you depart for your journey. Return it to the House of Eorl. It is there where it belongs, an important piece of their history. That much I know."

"It shall be done," Duvaineth promised. "However, I must voice my concern on the matter. If Théoden King may be under the influence of Saruman it would bode ill to have this weapon in their possession."

"Indeed," Elrond agreed. After a moment he nodded. "Very well! I understand and too share that concern. Keep it with you for as long as you can. Find Prince Théodred, or Lord Éomer, if you can. I would give it to either. They would know what to do with it and would take well care of it, I do not doubt."

Duvaineth nodded. She paused. A wave of uncertainty washed over her. The realization of her task suddenly fell over her. A part of her felt afraid, for if her plan succeeded, Sauron's eyes would be upon her. For how long, she could not say, and what may happen she could not foresee either. Would he seek to wright darkness and shatter what was left of her broken soul? Would her torment worsen more than it already was? This was what Duvaineth feared. It was indeed true that she had long felt his presence, but that was all it was. A mere presence. If his very attention were to be upon her…Would she be able to resist him, or would she be engulfed into darkness once more? And would she be able to escape as she once did?

Her fear did not go unnoticed by Elrond, who smiled sadly and laid a hand on her shoulder. "I do not know what lies in your path. Not even the wise can foresee all things. I know the same fear you feel and it is hardly a desire of mine any more than it is yours to treat it with such distress. There are memories you bear that will not fade and they will try to haunt you as you take your road to do good. But hear my words: You endured such pain for so long for a reason. What was that reason?"

Duvaineth dwelled on his words for a long while, not to seek an answer but a memory. A time where hope was bright in her heart. "I wanted to be free," she finally said. Her voice was small, quiet, as if it pained her to speak. Her voice was not as clear and deep as it was when she had been in Rohan. "I wanted to be free from pain. Free from my torments and despair and my wrongful doings. I wanted to reclaim myself for all I did. That was my hope, that one day I might be free from the clutches of darkness."

"Then cling onto that hope one last time!" Elrond said. "Fight this war with that very hope that you held onto so firmly those many years ago. Fight and bring such fire to the Free Peoples of Middle-earth as you once had, for one day if Sauron is defeated, you, Duvaineth of Lindon, you will be able to say that you are free. That you fought for it and for many others as well."

Warmth fell over Duvaineth, and the shadow that had fallen upon her left. Her fear was no more. She felt as if her heart had been lifted by the rays of Anor. She felt hope.

Hope. The word was a stranger to Duvaineth. She had not felt it since her arrival to Imladris three decades ago. Over the years it slowly faded as the Shadow persisted to ensnare her in its grasp. Although Duvaineth did not give in, her hope did long ago. Lord Elrond spoke not only words of wisdom but of words that reminded her of who she once was. A victorious soul free from Sauron and she would remain that way. "Thank you, my lord," Duvaineth said softly, but her voice was greatly overwhelmed with emotion, sounding light as a breath. "Thank you."


	14. Chapter 14

**Author's Note: I apologize yet again for such a long delay in updating. It has been a difficult couple months for me but I am still here, and I am still writing. Always. :) Looking back at this story and seeing how far I have gotten, and the amazing people who continue to follow it, I am just so thankful. For the support, the guidance, the encouragement - everything, so thank you to all my readers and reviewers, and even those who don't review or haven't in a while. Thank you, so much. Your support means the world to me and I truly hope you have been enjoying yourselves. More is to come!**

**Warning: I am rating this chapter M for the graphic violence that will be displayed.**

**As always, thank you to my amazing beta-reader, Gwedhiel, for her fabulous work.**

**Reviews are loved. Constructive criticism is worshiped.**

* * *

Two months had since passed. The last shreds of Firith came and went as the days began to grow colder with the impending winter. It was not long after that the scouts began to return. Aragorn was among the first few to do so and immediately sought counsel with Lord Elrond and Gandalf. What was spoken, Duvaineth did not know as little was relayed to her. Nor was she too curious. She knew that whatever road Elrond deemed best, it need not be doubted. She trusted his wisdom and, come whatever would be decided, she would take the chosen road faithfully and without complaint. Being granted a chance to fight in the war against Sauron was more than Duvaineth could have ever hoped for. But neither did she disdain Gandalf's company, and she listened with attentive ears as he spoke about the coming departure of both parties.

"There was much talking, as you may have gathered," Gandalf began. "But we came to a decision of what roads would be safest to take and the roads most unwise to wander."

"Indeed? I am glad to hear this. You held counsel for many hours."

"There was much to confer. Talking and debating and offering our knowledge to each other of the roads and where they lead, and the perils that might be faced upon them. A great deal of this was spoken concerning the paths the Fellowship will take."

"The Fellowship? Is that now what it is called?"

"It will not be only Frodo and Sam who will depart on the Quest. There will be nine who will depart from Imladris. Nine walkers against the nine Ringwraiths. Together all members shall represent the Peoples of Middle-earth. Gimli shall go on behalf of his Dwarven kin, and Legolas the Elves. Aragorn the Men, and also Boromir has agreed to come, for his and Aragorn's path lie together. I myself will go with them, as well, and upon the persistence of a certain Peregrin Took, he and Meridock Brandybuck shall go also. Frodo was rather disappointed to know you would not come. He has grown rather fond of you. Elrond assured him you had your own part in this war and would not be left out of it."

"I have grown very fond of the Hobbits as well. Frodo most of all," Duvaineth said. "He is good and of a pure heart. I worry for him. He will need all the strength to be had in the World if he is to bear the Ring through his Quest. Sauron will stop at nothing to find his Ring."

"And it is why you shall have his eye upon you for a time. You need to do very little. Keeping the Orcs at bay and diminishing Grima Wormtongue's effect on Théoden will be well beyond valuable to Rohan. Meanwhile, your pendant will be exposed and, sensing you, Sauron's attention will be distracted from Frodo for a little while. Tread your ways safely."

"Can you tell me that I will remain untouched by our enemy?" In her eyes shined doubt. It was not out of despair, but the simple fact that Duvaineth was wiser than to suspect her purpose would not go unhindered. "Is there any wisdom you may have or any words you can utter that can assure me I will go untouched by Sauron? No, there is none. No road that any of us may take will be safe. You say to me, 'Tread your ways safely', and I know how you mean. But is there truly any road before us that is safe, Mithrandir, save the one to the Grey Havens?"

"I am afraid not," Gandalf replied solemnly, "for those roads have long passed many years ago and cease to exist now. But I advised you to tread safely because I know you well. You know the danger that which these roads bear. You know where the Shadow lingers. Always you tread your roads safely. Quiet are your footsteps and swift is your arm. There is no doubt in my mind that you will not fail."

"Truly I hope you are right, Gandalf," Duvaineth sighed. "Truly, I do."

"You shall know soon. In seven days the Fellowship will depart and begin their journey. You will wait fourteen days to depart on your own, in the event we may yet be watched. We do not want the Enemy to suspect anything."

Duvaineth nodded. "I will be ready."

"Travel light. Carry only what you will need and prepare Gilroch as light as you can. You will need all the speed you can muster. You cannot afford to waste time. The longer you delay, the longer Théoden will hear the craven whispers of his serpent-tongued counselor. And most importantly…." Gandalf paused for a brief moment and then smiled. "Do not suffer another poisonous wound!"

"That, my friend, will be a hard pressed endeavor!" Duvaineth laughed.

The days were weightless to Duvaineth. Quickly did they pass, day by day fading and arising. The time for the Fellowship to depart would soon be at hand, and then her own. Yet she did not fear. The words of Elrond still echoed loudly, renewing, and she found her days faring better than they had ever before. Often she found herself drifting into a reverie of her memories; both of good and ill, but more of the latter. Yet it did not trouble her. Would this feeling linger, Duvaineth did not know. She daresay it would not and would take advantage of it as she often may.

_Bodies littered the ground. A thick fog choked the air but did not veil the blood that tainted the ground. It was quiet; nigh a breath stirred and she found that rather comforting. A battle had been drawn, long and heavy, and many lives lost. It was more than what Duvaineth wanted to see, but at last they slew their opponents' commander and soon, one by one they all fell. Now she stood in the aftermath of it, her blood-drenched sword held firmly in hand. Her chest heaved in quick movements as she struggled to regain her breath, her dark locks flowing about her as the wind blew. Duvaineth felt worn, her body aching and she felt deep regret as she stared at the scene before her. Yet her blood still rushed through her veins like the quick flow of a waterfall, and she could not quell it. Her sword yearned for more blood, and ever so eager was her hand and tight was her grip that her knuckles turned white._

_"No," Duvaineth breathed and sheathed her sword. No, she would not. She could not. That life was long behind her now and she would not walk back into it. Yet there was something about the carcass-littered battleground that intrigued her. Something urged her to take a look and she found herself wandering through the wide field. There was not a living soul; no one drew breath, or if they did then it was very shallow that Duvaineth could not hear them. And then she saw him._

_A survivor._

_He was not an ally. Yet Duvaineth felt pity as she stared at the bloodied and wounded Man lying upon the ground, coughing and gasping. This was Cirdir. She was neither joyful nor grieved but angry. It washed over her like the currents of the sea. As the elleth drew closer, Cirdir looked up sharply. The last time she saw him he looked upon her with hate and a hardened face, but now it was not so. The eyes that looked up at her were soft and full of shame, and fear. "Duvaineth…"_

_"Hello, friend." She smiled, but it was not friendly. It was bitter, cold, and unwelcoming. It chilled her own bones, but she barely shuddered._

_"I…I…" Cirdir paused as his eyes fell to a close as a harsh cough escaped his lips. He gasped, clutching his thigh. The pain he felt could not be missed. "I did not think…you were fighting this battle. But now I understand. You were always…a good swordsman."_

_"Flattery is not going to save you."_

_"Listen to me…"_

_"No. I am done listening." Duvaineth lowered onto her knees. Her gaze seemed to have grown harder if such was possible, and her eyes had grown dark. Cirdir knew the look in her eyes all too well and he was afraid. "Last we saw each other you looked upon me with such hate that you would have loved to drive your knife through my heart. Now I look upon you with the very same feeling. How does that feel, Cirdir?"_

_"Duvaineth—"_

_"You mocked me. You teased me with whips and chains. All I sought was to ease the evil that had made homage within your heart. Your greed and hatred blinded you and you slew your very own kin."_

_"Please…"_

_Duvaineth laughed. "You should have sought forgiveness a long time ago. It is now that you are weak and I am well and strong that you seek forgiveness."_

_"I thought I was doing right."_

_"You killed your own brethren!" Duvaineth snapped. Her hand gripped the back of his head and pulled him closer to her. Her eyes were aflame with anger. "You tormented them. You killed them, dismembered them, and dishonored them in the most horrific and sickening manner a Man could have ever done to his own people. You now seek forgiveness? Nay, my friend." Her hand reached for her waist and slowly pulled out a long dagger. "Nay."_

_Cirdir's eyes widened. "You are not yourself."_

_"I am quite myself."_

_"This is not you, Duvaineth!" The Man struggled against her grip, but his wound was great and his strength depleted. "You are kind. Loving! You do not kill others out of spite, nor do you allow your anger to hold sway over you so heavily. You are more than that. You are stronger than this."_

_"Indeed, I do not kill out of spite. This is not out of spite," Duvaineth said. "I stare at an enemy before me. He will join his brothers."_

_"Duvaineth…Please, I beg of you…"_

_Cirdir was not lying: She was not herself. She could feel it, knew it even as she stood there! She saw the terror and confusion in the Man's face, saw his wide eyes as he stared at her. And she really wanted to back away, to leave, to run, to deal with her black fury for this Man in the confines of any place where the continuing sight of him was absent, the sight that only made her more and more aware of the weight of her weapons the longer she looked at him._

_But she could not move. She could hear herself in her mind screaming and shouting to stop, but she could not make herself move. And it came abruptly just how bad this situation was. How very bad. She could have wailed._

_Valar, it had been so long since this last happened. So long..._

…_.Finally._

_And she watched herself, even as a strange sense of dullness washed over her that transformed her face into an impassive, cold mask. Watched herself step closer to Cirdir, who only looked more terrified at whatever he saw in her face. But Duvaineth could not do anything. She almost faltered as her heart swelled with something sinister. Did not want to do anything. She felt her grip tighten on the dagger's hilt._

_She came closer._

_Cirdir let out a broken scream – a desperate cry cut off not a moment later as Duvaineth quickly jabbed the dagger into the hollow of flesh where neck met shoulder. Blood followed the exit of the blade in a gush, Cirdir scraping in a panicked breath as his hands flew up. But whether it was to ward her off or grab his own blood-coated neck, Duvaineth reacted quicker as she followed through with a sharp, round arm swing, the blade's keen edge slicing through the Man's throat from ear to ear. She ignored the heat that splattered across her cheek as more blood immediately spurted, Cirdir's body crumpling to the ground, legs unnaturally tangled. His eyes stared upwards, any light of life already gone and replaced with that vacant lifelessness. The blood no longer came in pumping swells but still fell to soak into his hair and the ground beneath him._

_"Ai, Duvaineth!" She whipped around at the shout from behind._

_Suddenly, Duvaineth felt a jolt of pain coursing throughout her head. She gasped and dropped her dagger and knelt forward as she pressed at her temples. The pain faded just as it came, but very unpleasant it had been. Her senses returned to her. Relief fell over her. Yet little did she remember of what just occurred and the moment she gazed upon the body before her, the memory returned and horror soon replaced the relief she had felt. "Cirdir?" she whispered, but he did not answer. He was gone._

_Cirdir was dead._

_"No…No!" Duvaineth closed her eyes tightly but it did not keep her tears at bay. They fell freely, and she soon fell into a fit of sobs._

_Heavily wracked in her own grief she was that Duvaineth did not hear someone approaching her and barely moved as they spoke. "Alas for Cirdir," they sighed. "I come little too late. Forgive me, Duvaineth. I sought for you as soon as I could."_

_"I do not understand…"_

_"I do." Aragorn walked forward and knelt at her side. "I fear it was a poor decision to let you come. Sauron yet still has control over you."_

_"This was not his doing," Duvaineth said quietly. "It was by my will and mine alone."_

_"But you were not yourself," he gently reminded. "This was the Dark Lord's influence, I say. A mere aftereffect from your days in torment. But nothing more! Yet it has a strong sway over you. I once saw you in battle in the Trollshaws. You fight as if your very life depends on it – more than it should."_

_Duvaineth said nothing for a long while. She contemplated his words. At length she spoke. "I have always fought. It is all I know. To draw blood and kill my enemy, and always I took the greatest of pleasure in that. But no more. No more shall I even so draw near to a battle."_

_Aragorn leaned forward and rested his hand on her shoulder. His touch was warm but it did little to ease her. "You are no longer there. No more do you now have the need to fight for your life. No more do you need to draw blood and end the lives of those who come before you. A new life awaits you, Duvaineth. A life of peace and of anew, a life that you greatly deserve."_

_Duvaineth looked up at him. "Where is this new life?"_

_He smiled. "Imladris."_

"Meluiwen?"

Startled from her thoughts, Duvaineth looked up sharply but smiled when she saw who it was. "Hello, Estel."

"You cannot sleep as well, I see."

"No, I cannot, though my mind is not troubled. Nor is it still."

"Alas," her friend sighed. "I believe we all are struggling with the very same." Aragorn strolled over to her and eased himself down next to her on the bench.

Night had long since fallen upon Imladris and long had many of the guests in the Last Homely House settled in their sleeping chambers, Duvaineth among them. Yet it was not sleep that came to her, and instead a restless mind persisted the hours as she had lain awake in her bed. Frigid weather had recently arrived with the coming of Rhîw. Little the Sun shone and each day felt gloomy as the sky was veiled with grey clouds, and though colder the air had turned, Duvaineth did not mind. Her worn cloak provided enough warmth for her to withstand the chilled air. It appeared she was not the only one that struggled with falling asleep this night. Duvaineth smiled. "We all have roads before us we must ponder. I can only imagine how the Ring–bearer must feel."

"He grows anxious."

"I do not doubt. The fate of Middle-earth rests upon him. He must take many paths that are filled with peril and venture into a land where I would never return to."

"Yes," Aragorn said solemnly. "He carries a heavy burden, one I would not desire to bear nor lay upon anyone. I believe in Frodo. Although I fear for him, he has strength, strength that even I cannot muster."

"Nor I," the elleth murmured. She sighed and fell silent once more, the remembrance of Cirdir again coming to the fore of her mind, like a relentless tap on the shoulder. Aragorn was now looking at her a little too keenly and, evidently aware of the new direction of her thought, he broke the silence.

"It was not your fault."

Duvaineth looked at him, confused. "What?"

"Cirdir," Aragorn said simply, a small smile on his lips.

"Was it evident?"

"You have that look in your eye."

Duvaineth sighed again. "My eyes are indeed a window. Yes, I was thinking about him a short while ago. Guilt continues haunt me."

"You cannot blame yourself. What befell him was of his own choice, not your own will."

"Yet I took his life with my dagger, did I not?"

"You were not yourself."

"No," Duvaineth disagreed, her voice soft. "I was me. I was there, watching it all unfold before me and yet I did not have the strength to overcome the power until it was too late. It was me, my friend, and I gave him a fate that my heart grieves to remember."

"Yet it was not you," Aragorn gently said. "Cirdir chose his fate the moment he brought his sword upon the first Dúnadan. He knew there would be no forgiveness nor any hope of redemption for his soul. He was long lost to us before he murdered many of his kin. In the end the darkness that had fallen over him left, and the Enemy suffered another defeat. I can only wonder what would have had happened to Cirdir had he lived, and was found by greater servants of Sauron. I shudder to think what terrible deeds he would have committed. In the end, you did him a favor, I believe."

"Perhaps," Duvaineth said after a moment. "My heart cannot forget that day. I was a former shade of who I once was. A lesser part of me."

"Let us be glad in that, then!" Aragorn said. "She is gone. She was abandoned many years ago and made anew. You no longer walk that path, nor will you return to it."

"How can you be so certain?" When she looked up at the Man, she saw he looked rather sorrowful. What he was thinking, Duvaineth did not know, but his answer, sincere and true, quelled the heavy shroud of grief and uncertainty that lay upon her.

"Because you are stronger. Who you once were was weaker than you are now."

Duvaineth smiled, but she said nothing. Her smile was all Aragorn needed. She was saying thank you.

And so then the days passed like fluttering leaves and soon came the day for the Fellowship to depart for their long awaited journey. The evening was quiet. There was very little left to say; it was a rather solemn day, one filled with sadness and fear, and uncertainty. The crisp air of Rhîw was cold and numbing, but it hardly affected Duvaineth as she joined Elrond and his kin to bid farewells. The Fellowship sat before the doors of the Last Homely House, of which then they would move to the stone-arched entrance of Imladris, where its path would then lead the Fellowship away from the Valley's dwelling structure. Duvaineth would soon take that path and she could not help but wonder many things. But too many thoughts there were that she felt very overwhelmed by them. She looked at Frodo. Her heart broke for him. He looked very worn and anxious already. Undoubtedly the journey ahead was evermore on his mind. As if sensing her gaze, Frodo looked up. His eyes fell upon Duvaineth and she smiled.

A soft light shone from his neck – a bright glare, glittering in the sunlight. Duvaineth turned her head away, feeling a sense of foreboding falling upon her. Despite what she felt, she did not give into the Shadow by the mere sight and presence of the One Ring. If anything, her heart raced with excitement. Sauron's Ring had been lost for many years, years that had faded and been forgotten, ceasing to exist in memory. Since that time, war and death have brought ruin to many homes and blood had tainted the once pure earth. The One Ring had been found and its bearer would now embark on a journey seeking to destroy it, ending all pain and sorrow, all blood and tears. The war would be over and Sauron would be destroyed.

And she would be free of all her torments. Free of him.

The Quest to destroy the One Ring would not be an easy task. It was thought to be folly, but it was also their only hope as well. Should Frodo fail, there would be no hope left to stop Sauron. Darkness would cover every acre of Middle-earth and all would fall into ruin. However, should they succeed…The Sun would then shine again and the Dark Lord would fall. Duvaineth believed in Frodo. Uncertainty lingered in her thoughts, she would not deny it, but Frodo was strong and true. He would prevail. She had to believe in that, or then there would be no hope or life within her.

"_Today you will embark on a path that will lead you to many unknown and mayhap perilous places. I fear we will not see each other for some time, if we shall look upon each other again after this day. My heart hopes we will," Duvaineth had said to him earlier that day, as those around them prepared for the departure of the Fellowship._

_"You share the same fear as I," was Aragorn's response, "but I ask that you fear not for me or for any among us, but hope and believe that we will see better days." And then he withdrew his sword with a cry, and held it to the sky. The blade shone fiercely even under the grey skies, as if it was a lit with flames. "Elendil! Behold! The sword that was once broke is now forged anew. Anduril, Flame of the West it is called, forged with the broken sword Narsil."_

_Duvaineth looked on with awe. "And the crownless shall again be king." She smiled. "You may then be King of Gondor when we next see each other, Estel!"_

_"Nay!" Aragorn laughed. "I would have you there at my coronation. That I assure you."_

_"I would take the greatest joy in being there." And they embraced and, when they pulled back, Duvaineth smiled up at him with fondness. Tears fell from her eyes unbidden. "Farewell, my dear friend. May we again see each other in wellness."_

A sudden clear blast from a horn startled Duvaineth and those who remained seated sprang to their feet. "Slow should you be to wind that horn again, Boromir," Elrond then spoke, his voice of warn as he walked out from The Last Homely House with Gandalf at his side. "Until you stand once more on the borders of your land, and dire need is on you."

Gandalf approached her. "Now comes the time we must part once more."

"Alas," Duvaineth sighed, "I wish it were not so."

"Do you cherish the company of an old Man, Mistress?" His eyes sparkled with jest. Duvaineth laughed.

"Most certainly I do! Above all else, your counsel puts my heart at ease, but the Nine Walkers have gained a very valuable member. Yet I fear there will come a time where I will need your wisdom and all odds will be set against me."

"Indeed that will come to pass, as it will for us all," Gandalf answered. "You will not be alone. But listen to my words – much may have already changed. Things may have come to pass you did not think could. Walk carefully wherever you go and speak light with your tongue with those you cannot trust, and when you remain doubtful and seek counsel, turn to your heart, for it has no greater truth."

"Thank you, my friend," Duvaineth said softly. "Truly I hope to see you again one day, should the war come to an end. I would like to speak to you and take strolls in days of happier times, and not so grim."

Gandalf smiled. He laid hand on her shoulder and squeezed it gently, and she felt warmth radiate through her body, any coldness and apprehension vanishing, but it did not quell her sadness. The Wizard turned and rejoined where those of the Fellowship were settled. Among them Aragorn sat with his head bowed to his knees. There were only few in number who knew what this day meant to him. Duvaineth smiled sadly. Before her knowledge of the Fellowship, Duvaineth had hoped her and the Dúnadan would embark together to Rohan, as he would offer great company and be an asset to the task set before her. Many years ago he dwelled there and aided the Rohirrim. Duvaineth wondered if they again would accept him.

Nay, she thought to herself, He is need elsewhere, and for a far greater purpose.

The Elf-lord turned to the Fellowship and spoke to them in a low voice. Duvaineth did not hear what was said, nor did she attempt to strain her ears to listen. It would be best not to know what was spoken. And then he spoke again in louder voice, "Look not too far ahead! But go now with good hearts! Farewell, and may the blessing of Elves and Men and all Free Folk go with you. May the stars shine upon your faces!"

"Good . . . good luck!" Bilbo cried, stuttering with the cold. "I don't suppose you will be able to keep a diary, Frodo my lad, but I shall expect a full account when you get back. And don't be too long! Farewell!"

Many others of Elrond's household stood in the shadows and watched them go, bidding them farewell with soft voices. There was no laughter, no song or music. At last they turned away and faded silently into the dusk, and soon it was quiet and many left with burdened hearts until Duvaineth and Elrond were the only ones remaining, watching the distant forms of the Fellowship as they drew further away. "Well…" Elrond turned and looked at the elleth standing next to him. "Now all we do is wait."


	15. Chapter 15

**Author's Note:**

**Elvish Translation - **_Novaer! Na lû e-govaned 'wîn _means Farewell! (lit. "be well") Until we may next meet.

_Noro lim_ means ride fast.

_Daro_ means cease.

* * *

On the morning that marked a fortnight since the Company left Imladris to embark on their perilous Quest, Elrond summoned Duvaineth. "The time has come. Two weeks have now passed since the departure of the Fellowship and it is time for you to take your own road. Gather what necessities you and Gilroch will need, for this evening under the fall of night I bid you to make haste to Rohan. Pack lightly, and laden your steed even lighter."

Night had fallen only shortly ago. Duvaineth spent the afternoon in discussion with Elrond, who spoke to her of the roads best to take and marking them on the map. She spent an hour pouring over it, studying her paths and being mindful of the journey ahead. The road she would take would bear her southward, just as she had those many months ago, but she would keep to her course and continue to ride south, avoiding Isengard at a great distance and riding along the Adorn. It was nearest to Edoras and was perhaps the safest road. She then followed Elrond's instructions and packed as lightly as she could, retrieving rations. Afterwards, she went into her bedchamber to fetch the remaining of her necessities: her bow and quiver of newly tipped arrows, her cloak, and the Elvish Blade she was counseled to return to the House of Eorl that she placed in its own scabbard. Lastly, she retrieved five of her daggers and placed one within the sleeve of her tunic, one in each boot, and the remainder she tucked at her waist. Much to her dismay, Duvaineth no longer had her sword. She had lost it when she was wounded. She knew it would be most wise to equip herself with a new one before her departure. Well-made was her bow, and sharp were her arrows, but they could only be handy for so long. It would be folly to have confidence in only notching an arrow to fend off her enemies.

She needed a sword.

Much to her surprise, a sword had already been crafted for her, whetted, shined, and tucked safely in its scabbard. She should not have been at a loss for words, for Elrond Half-elven was a kind and generous lord of his home, and to those dwelling in his halls. She attempted to give her thanks to the smiling Elf-lord, but her tongue failed her and all she could wonder was how he knew. As if reading her thoughts, Elrond answered her, "Do you truly believe I did not notice your return was without your sword? It may as well be that it was lost, for it was old and very much worn, and bore grim memories that you should no longer bear. May it evermore be of great assistance to you against your enemies."

Once her belongings were prepared, Duvaineth went to the stables and readied her steed for the journey. It would not be until a fortnight before they would arrive in Rohan. Their road would be long and there would be a risk of danger likely heralding their steps, and they could not waste time. She fed and watered Gilroch before hefting her saddle from the partition and placing it carefully on her back. After ensuring all was correctly strapped and buckled and her steed no longer twitched her ears, Duvaineth then tied two small satchels to the saddle and refilled her skin of water. By late evening, just as the Sun shone its last light before slipping behind the craggy hills, Duvaineth was ready to depart.

A small number accompanied her to the stone-arched entrance. Lord Elrond was there and with him were Glorfindel and Erestor. "And it is here at this hour you will take your leave from the arms of my home once more and venture into the unknown dangers of the world," Elrond said to her. "I can offer you no greater words than those I was able to give to the Nine Walkers, for although your paths will be of lesser danger than those facing the Company, I cannot assure you your ways will see little harm."

"The world has grown more perilous since you last truly beheld it," Glorfindel warned her. "Your time in Rohan was but brief with much of it spent in recovery. You were unable to lift your eyes to our world. Take caution; you may come across enemies disguised with a friendly face, but you may yet find friends and more. Be careful and trust your heart in times when the road is too dark to see and you find yourself with doubts and fears."

"I do not think my roads will bear much light, if at all," Duvaineth said sadly.

"Have heart!" Glorfindel smiled merrily. "There may come days where the Sun shines upon your face. Verily I hope it will."

"Thank you, Lord Glorfindel. Evermore is the warmth of your words, and always your wisdom and friendship have been of great value to me." Duvaineth bowed her head deeply, her hand over her heart, and when she lifted her head she saw him returning the gesture.

"Carry these words with you," Elrond then said. "You had the strength to prevail many trials ere your time in Imladris and you will again have the strength to prevail the trials to come. Go, and take your part in this war. I bid you a safe journey."

Duvaineth dropped the reins belonging to her steed and strode forward to embrace him. "Thank you," she murmured.

As she pulled back, Elrond looked at her with curiosity. "What for, my child?"

"For all you have done for me in the time I have dwelt in Imladris," Duvaineth replied. "You took me in and healed me of my wounds, and gave to me compassion from the pureness of your heart that I feel to this very day I did not deserve. Scars I bear, yet you did not look upon me and send me away. You knew I was not evil and hoped for me to feel the virtues that your realm offers, and even in my darkest moments as the Shadow weighed heavily upon me, you faltered not in being a kind, caring, and gracious lord. Wisdom and counsel you offered me and a gentle hand you guided me with. Gladly would I call you my own father."

Emotion visibly lit up the Elf-lord's face. His eyes shone warmly, his smile tender. "Those who come to Imladris in need of peace and healing are not turned away. You would not have been left to suffer a painful death. Nevertheless, you bear with you to this day deep hurts that our healing or the power of Wizards cannot cleanse away. Alas, even as you were healed of your wounds you could not have peace, and deeply did I yearn for you to feel joy once more."

"I do not think I will feel neither peace nor joy until Sauron is defeated. Truly, anyhow," Duvaineth said, "but my time here in Imladris helped my sorrow, and I shall never forget it."

"_Novaer! Na lû e-govaned 'wîn_," Elrond bade his farewell.

Duvaineth bowed her head, placing a hand upon her heart. She turned and mounted Gilroch and with a loud chirrup to her, Duvaineth galloped off and disappeared from their sight like a shadow. Soon, Imladris was gone from her sight and she felt the harsh, chilled air against her face. It numbed her, in likeness of sleet falling onto her cheek. Duvaineth drew her cloak over her face and sighed contently at the warmth that washed over her skin. "Noro lim, Gilroch," she gently urged her steed. "Noro lim! We must ride with haste!"

Gilroch obeyed and galloped faster. Duvaineth rode all through the night and well into the morning, scarcely chancing a pause save for a couple brief moments for the sake of her steed. Weariness had long swept over Duvaineth and as the day waned, sleep beckoned her so heavily that she could not resist its tempting call and fell into a deep slumber. Brief it was, however, for Duvaineth was abruptly woken by the sudden stillness of her horse. It was evening. Gilroch was standing silently on the riverbank, tired and in need of a respite all the while stubbornly refusing her mistress' commands to continue. Duvaineth eventually stopped and laughed.

"Very well!" she said. "I do not wish to exhaust you until you collapse. We shall rest for a while and then continue our way. Does that please you?"

Gilroch made a noise, shaking her head. Pleased with the given response, Duvaineth dismounted and led her steed closer to the river and allowed her to drink to her heart's content as she quenched her own thirst. She fed Gilroch a couple of apples and sat down, eating a slice of bread with cheese herself. By the time Duvaineth finished and it was time for them to continue, the weariness from before had set into her muscles and the thought of rising from where she sat became quite unpleasant, let alone the thought of continuing the journey. "Resting here does not seem an unwise thought," Duvaineth said to herself, stroking her horse's mane. "We can rest here for the night and continue on in the morning." With that decided, Duvaineth made camp there.

A fire was made and Gilroch was tended to once more before Duvaineth settled down for the night. It was not long until she fell into a deep slumber, dreamless and undisturbed. When she rose in the morning, she felt rather refreshed, and after a small breakfast she mounted Gilroch and they continued on. The days of her journey remained uneventful, much to Duvaineth's relief, though they felt slow as they passed and the House of Eorl was often on her mind. She wondered how Théoden King fared, and Éowyn and Éomer.

Were the concerns of Rohan's king only a false fear, or had his mind indeed been poisoned? How did Éowyn fare? A lady of his Halls she was, her sufferings quiet and her sadness suppressed, as the unwanted and greedy eyes of Grima Wormtongue watched her steps in the shadows. And Éomer – what of him? Had he mastered his struggle to hold his tongue better, or was his fierce love for his land greater than the restraint? Alas for so many questions that could not yet be answered, and it caused her to be all the more eager for her return to the lands. Out of all her worries, however, it was Éowyn who Duvaineth wondered the most about, and for a long while dwelled in her thoughts as she remembered her time with the Woman, and the fears and struggles she had once confided in her.

It was evening when Duvaineth recognized her surroundings. She was now nearing the borders of Rohan. She rode on with eagerness, and by the time she passed into the lands it was night. Duvaineth debated whether to rest for the night or not, but Gilroch showed no signs of tiring, so she pressed on. She was relieved to be in Rohan after nigh two weeks of traveling and felt she could continue for many more hours. However, it was not too long after that she felt uneasy. There was a presence; not one but many. Had she again made a mistake in making her presence known to her enemies? Duvaineth did not know, nor would she linger around to discover it. This time she would not fight. Her task was far too important to be delayed.

"_Noro lim_, Gilroch!" she urged her horse, and she rode faster.

Short lived was her escape, however, for soon many horsemen rode from the shadows and blocked her path. Their movement was swift and sudden, startling Gilroch, who, when Duvaineth pulled on her reins and shouted in Elvish, rose on her hind legs and threw her mistress off her back. Duvaineth fell onto the ground rather harshly with a grunt, the wind leaving her lungs in a huff. But her attention was hardly focused on the pain as loud neighs invoked concern as her horse was seized by the horsemen, of which Gilroch did not take to very fondly. "_Daro_, Gilroch!" Duvaineth commanded.

Before she had the chance to move or speak her piece, a tall shadow loomed over her and she felt the cold steel of his sword pressed against her throat. "Remain still, lest you wish to taste the bitter sting of my blade this night."

"I assure you, my lord, I would prefer not to have another sword embedded in me again."

The Man standing over her paused and she heard quiet murmurs among the horsemen. The Man then leaned forward and pulled back the hood of her cloak from her face. He stared at her in astonishment. "Mistress Duvaineth!"

She smiled. "Hello, Lord Éomer."

Éomer laughed joyously. He sheathed his sword and extended his arm to her, which she grasped gratefully, and he helped her up. "Forgive me! I mistook you for an enemy."

"We shared the same concern, then! For I too thought you were an Orc."

"It is good who I discovered you were, then, before bringing any harm to you."

"Indeed," Duvaineth agreed, nodding.

His joy left as confusion then shadowed his features, as if a sudden realization came to him, creasing his features into an attentive frown. "What brings you hither to the Riddermark, least of all the Adorn River?"

"Not a wound, I say!" Duvaineth jested, inciting a chuck from the Rohír. She paused briefly to carefully choose her words, but Éomer did not miss her look of discomfort as she moved her eyes among the horsemen. It was then he understood and looked over his shoulder.

"I wish to speak with Mistress Duvaineth alone. Ride eastward and scout one last time and then return to our camp. I will be there."

"Yes, my lord," a Man answered. He mustered the éored and rode away into the night with them close behind.

Éomer turned to her and gestured to their steeds. "Come. Our camp is not far from here. We can speak along the way. You may rest with us tonight as well, if you wish. I do not doubt you must be weary, and I will not have you travel during this late hour. It is too dangerous, even for my companions, regardless our number of arms."

"Thank you, Lord Éomer," Duvaineth bowed her head in gratitude. "That is most kind of you. I will accept your invitation."

Both Man and elleth then mounted their steeds and Éomer led her into the night. And so Duvaineth answered his question from earlier. "I have come again to Rohan by my own will. The days have grown darker. I can feel it; its terrible grasp tries to take hold of the earth. I wished to visit Rohan and see how the lands and her king fared." She merely smiled in response at the surprised look she received from the Rohír. "Spoke I something that caught you off guard, my lord?"

"Admittedly, yes, but not in a bad manner, I assure you," Éomer said with a chuckle. "I cannot say we often have others visiting our lands, seeking how we fare. I am glad you are here. Will you stay long?"

"If I may be granted leave to stay, then yes, indeed I will."

"You will be welcomed, I have no doubt. I know Éowyn will be overjoyed to see you."

"And I as well, Lord Éomer." Silence fell between them but it did not linger long. A thought had long come to Duvaineth's mind, one she could not push away. "If you do not mind my asking, how fares Théoden King?"

Éomer hesitated. She sat there in silence, waiting for his answer though already sensing it. At length, Éomer sighed and spoke. "Not well, I should say. It was only but a week ago I returned to mine uncle and gave my reports concerning the duties that he entrusted me with; however, my visit was anything but pleasant. Grima is evermore at his side like a fly drawn to honey. He says he seeks to only guide him rightfully. I believe him not. Meanwhile, our enemies are becoming bold and entering the Riddermark. We know not where they come from, nor what purpose they hold other than to bring ruin to our homeland. Our attempts to keep them at bay are at its best effort. Every day we lose more men and our struggle against them becomes more difficult."

That was not all, Duvaineth could tell. The Man paused and looked as if he was hesitant to speak again. Before he could, she spoke her curiosity. "What is it, my lord?"

It was some time before Éomer spoke again, and when he did his voice was quiet, the depth of his troubles evident. "I believe we may have a larger threat than you have anticipated. I cannot say what they are, for I do not know. They are large, much stronger than any Orc I have seen before, and can travel under the Sun. What Orc can do that? Nay, Mistress. These are no Orcs."

"Have you managed to catch a good glance at them?"

"No, I have not. Between the heavy thicket of battle and burying my brethren, I have not had the time to look at them. Nor would I have any desire to," Éomer said dourly. "They are not what I would call fair."

Duvaineth dwelled on his news. "Those are no good tidings. Is there anything I can do to help?"

"Your offer is kind, Mistress Duvaineth, but I would not have you become involved in such draining affairs during your stay. Your previous sojourn here was heavily troubled with its own toils and very little time was spent in enjoyment. You would only be burdened, I fear."

Duvaineth abruptly pulled on the reins, stopping her steed. She turned to Éomer. "You spared my life when no other would have done so. Any other Man would have left me to die once he understood I was of Elf kind. You did not. It is through your deed for which I am most grateful and for that I owe you a great debt. In mine eyes the House of Eorl are allies, even if your own people growl at me and wish to bind my hands, and send me away. It is for our friendship and my loyalty to you and to your uncle's halls that I will rise and help Rohan in its struggles, if I am called upon to do so. All you need to do is say the word, and I will."

"Truly, is there no end to your surprises?" Éomer shook his head in amazement, chuckling. "I did not think one would be so grateful to a Man who saved their life."

"Men are grateful for the sparing of their lives and they will dwell on it for a while, and then continue his days as he did before. An Elf, however, sees life differently than a Man does. They are connected to life and Arda in ways that cannot be understood by many but the Elves themselves. My gratitude to you is that and the kindness you have given me thereafter."

"It appears I do not yet know much about the Elves as I would like to," Éomer replied with a smile. "Come tomorrow we will begin our journey to Edoras and see the king, if you wish. I cannot promise you what you will see will be of good, however."

"Then let us hope for the best!" Duvaineth said grimly.

And so they arrived to the Rohirrim camp where Éomer offered her bread and meat and they ate together in silence, now and then speaking of pleasantries. Within the hour, the éored returned. To see that Duvaineth was still in their Marshal's company brought them no joy, as they were visibly displeased when informed the elleth would stay with them for a time and had no compunction voicing it. It was obvious they had not forgotten her stay in Edoras and hardly thought her company to be pleasant.

"Nor does she likely find your company pleasant as well," Éomer interjected. "You turn unkind words on her with equally unkind eyes. What good will that do you? None, I say, for one day you may find yourselves in need of her mercy. But she is here on her own errand and seeks to see our king on a matter of his welfare. It is reason enough to escort her hence."

No one spoke. He had said the final word, and it would remain. He would not be moved from his decision. They complied, but it was evident they still remained wary of the elleth.

Morning had not yet dawned when they arose and prepared their steeds. Edoras was a two-day journey and the hours would be long. For the portion of the hour they spent in their preparations, Éomer was in frequent discussion with a Rohír, Éothain, Duvaineth believed was his name. What was spoken, she did not know, but the Marshal's face was creased in a grave frown as he spoke quietly. Whatever the conversation might have been of, it concerned Éomer, and that was enough for Duvaineth to know.

As the Sun slowly gave light to the world, Éomer led his éored onto their journey. In the front rank far to Éomer's left was Éothain, and riding on his right was Duvaineth. As she was not in any way of Rohirric heritage nor was seen as one among the éored, or even welcomed to ride alongside them for that matter, Éomer thought it best that she be on his flank. He welcomed her company; there was much to relay since he had last seen her, for he was very curious about Imladris and the Elves, to which Duvaineth was more than happy to speak of her home and those who dwelled there. And as she drew to the end of her tale, she added, "Mayhap one day you will come to Imladris and look upon the beauty of the Elves, just as I have come and returned to Rohan and gazed upon its own!"

"A fair proposal that I cannot disagree with, Mistress Duvaineth! Indeed, I shall. You have my word!" Éomer said.

Their return to Edoras was made in good time. By the second hour in the afternoon, two days after their departure for the city, they came upon the high slopes of Edoras. While Éomer and Duvaineth slowed down to a trot and stopped before the gates of the city, the éored continued onward, entering Edoras and seeking to tend to their horses. Two Rohirrim stood watch, garbed in leather and armed with spears, hailing Éomer when they saw him. But when they saw Duvaineth, they lowered their gazes, their eyes shadowed with unfriendliness. She said nothing to them.

"Good day, Aglar and Eadgar."

"Good day, Lord Éomer! You have returned safe from your journey."

"Indeed I have," Éomer answered, dismounting and grabbing the reins to Firefoot. He stepped forward, but neither the guards moved to allow entrance, and when he sought to question them he saw their gaze on the elleth at his side.

"What is the matter, my friends? Does my companion bother you?" he asked them.

Aglar was annoyed by his words. "She is no companion of ours."

"She is a friend of mine, and of the House of Eorl," Éomer replied calmly.

"I am afraid your claim is false."

Éomer narrowed his eyes. "How do you mean?"

"Théoden King has long issued a decree in your first absence," Eadgar said. "Mistress Duvaineth is not welcomed in Edoras and is not to be admitted, under the penalty of whatever punishment deemed by His Majesty himself."

"Penalty!" Éomer exclaimed. "Then he does not understand the true meaning of that word!"

"No." Duvaineth gripped Éomer's arm. "I ask you, do not do that on my account."

Éomer looked at her solemnly. "You were a guest in mine uncle's halls once, and evermore was he fond of you. He would have not changed that. I will not allow this."

"And that brings me joy to know you would defend me, my lord, but I would not have you act so rashly on this. It is dangerous and we know not what has happened. Caution must be heeded."

"This is not right, Duvaineth. Something must be done."

"Now is not the time. Please, I beseech you, for both of our sakes." The plea shown in her eyes as much as her voice with a soft light of concern, and just as Éomer's anger had come, it left him.

At length, Éomer nodded. "I will speak with Uncle and I will hear him, to see what he has to say," he said. "I only hope he will hear me as I will hear him."

Duvaineth nodded. "I will wait here."

Éomer gave a short nod at Algar and Eadgar, and they pulled back their spears and allowed him entrance. Duvaineth watched on as he entered Edoras and walked up the high slope, disappearing from her sight. She inwardly sighed, lifting her eyes to the great Meduseld in the distance. There was little hope for a good outcome of Éomer's attempt, but it was one done so out of love and care for his king that she admired it. And yet as she stood outside of the city, home to the beloved Théoden King, a Man of great valor and honor who was now a mere puppet underneath the greasy fingers of a sinister Man, she herself now unwelcomed company to even Théoden, she wondered what would come out of this.


	16. Chapter 16

**Author's Note: Happy belated Thanksgiving! I hope everyone had a wonderful turkey day, I know I did! Again, I apologize for the delayed update. I have been going through some life changing situations, but know I am always writing and working on _Scars_. I am pleased to say much work has been done and I can't wait to share it with you all! I would like to say thank you to everyone who has followed the story with me and has left the feedback you have. Truly, I am thankful for it! Please let me know what you think of this chapter. I would love to know your opinions and how I can improve!**

**Much love!**

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Éomer paused at the steps leading to the doors of the king's hall. He nearly hesitated. To hold discourse with the king was not a matter he looked forward to. Eagerness to see his uncle was far from him and this troubled him, for there was a time Éomer would have great joy to come and see him and spend time with him; now that was not so, and he took his time contemplating the words he would say. His previous departure from Edoras bore no good memory. Théoden had appeared somewhat changed; weary and silent, the mere sound of his voice bringing a foreboding chill upon his heart. Now he wondered how much more he may have changed, if at all, and if for ill. Had he not been commanded by his king, Éomer would have stayed, but now he doubted if that were wise. As soon as the thought came, it left. He had slain many foul creatures since then. Of course it had been wise. A great ill would have otherwise come to their lands. Despite this, much had already changed, and Éomer wondered what was at work. The time of pleasantries with his uncle was no more, he feared.

With a shake of his head Éomer pushed away those thoughts, his hesitance with it, and climbed the long stairs, coming to the doors of Meduseld. There, Háma the doorward stood before him. When he saw Éomer, his worn features alit with a mixture of joy, surprise and, strangely, relief. "Lord Éomer!" he cried. "You have returned, whole and hale. This brings a light to my heart."

"Indeed I have! I come to see my uncle," Éomer replied.

Háma shifted uncomfortably at his words. "I am afraid I cannot allow you to enter, my lord. Théoden King wishes to be left alone as of late and has instructed me to allow no disturbance into his halls unless it is a matter of great importance."

If he did not feel troubled before, then surely he did now. "Do you not know me, Master Háma? Am I now to be distrusted?" Éomer asked him. "Have I not been ever loyal to our king, loving him and standing steadfast in my duty to him, no less than his son?"

"Nay, my lord. Do not mistake my words for contempt. Be assured when I say your loyalty to the king is not doubted. My memory goes back to when you first pledged your services to Théoden King and you have not strayed from your duty since," Háma answered. "Alas, it is the order of the king he is not to be disturbed, and so I cannot allow anyone through these doors without questioning their business and deeming it worthy to interrupt him. I pray your pardon, my lord."

"You are only abiding by the command of your king. Never would I fault a Man for that. I have come to report to the king the faring of his lands. Is that no longer a matter of importance to him?"

"It is difficult to say anymore." Éomer gave him a questioning look, but Háma merely shook his head and sighed. "You may enter. However, take caution. It saddens me to say your coming will be questioned."

"I will remember your words, friend," Éomer promised.

Háma nodded and stepped aside. With a motion of his hand the two guards blocking entry to the doors stepped aside. With a smile and quiet 'thank you', Éomer hurried past the doorward. Upon entering the Meduseld, however, he stopped short. In truth, he would rather endure one of his sister's lectures about recognizing when to hold his tongue. He chuckled, concluding that he will indeed need to remember one of her lectures. Questioning a king was a dangerous matter, even for him. There was no doubt in his mind Grima would be there, and there was little hope in his heart for much to be accomplished, should anything come to pass. Regardless of it, he would not turn away. He has given his word and he would not fall back from it. And yet he could not help but think, why? Why now was Mistress Duvaineth banished? She was of no harm. Had she not shown humility and grace before the king during her time in the Riddermark? Had she not been grateful for his kindness?

Nay; it did not seem right, or sensible for the matter. And though his determination was as high as the trees, Éomer also remained doubtful of any fruit to come out of this. It was not the discourse he would have with Théoden King – or rather Grima, he presumed – that he was doubtful of, but his concern lay with the manner his own tongue. One would say Éomer's love for his home was profound, his tongue sharp and sometimes unwilling to be silent. The rises of his anger from the recent discovery of Duvaineth's ban was still high, and he had little will to waste his time with a worm such as the king's counselor. Yet rashly spoken words were dangerous and would not be forgiven, and it was due to such a fact and the promise he made that Éomer would guard his tongue.

Éomer's presumptions were true, much to his dismay. Grima was kneeling before the king's feet upon the dais, but there in the far corner was also a familiar face he had not seen in far too long a time. When she raised her eyes and noticed him, her despondency left her and instead her fair features glowed with joy. "Éomer!" Éowyn cried and ran forward, throwing herself in her brother's arms.

"My dear sister!" Éomer wrapped his arms around her frame and held her close with a soft laugh. "Have I truly been missed so?"

"Why would you believe otherwise? Of course you were!"

"You have little faith in my safe return," he jested with a grin as he pulled back. "I am better equipped for a simple scouting of our lands than you think I am."

"I know you are," Éowyn smiled. "I do not doubt your ability in service to our king. But I oft hear many a tale. My fears for my brother cannot be stayed. Can you fault me for it?"

"Tales, you say?" Éomer quietly mused. "You must tell me what these tales are. I am curious as to what rumors have been wandering about us as of late. We will discuss that another time, though. Tell me, how does our uncle fare?"

"Physically? Well." A shadow then fell over her features. Briefly her eyes fell over her shoulders to Théoden, before again looking up at him. "He is changed. He is not the Man he was once when you last saw him. I advise you to be cautious with your words, brother."

Éomer forced a smile. "You are not the first to tell me this."

"Indeed?" Éowyn questioned. "Who else has told you this?"

"There was Háma, who was rather hesitant to allow me to pass. And then there was Mistress Duvaineth."

She perked at his words. "Duvaineth is here?"

"She is indeed," Éomer replied. "However…" he trailed off, uncertain of how to continue.

"What is it? What is wrong?"

"It appears Mistress Duvaineth is banished from Edoras."

Éowyn's eyes widened. She stared at him in abhorrence. "Banished! Surely not."

"It is true. The guards at the gate denied her entry. They said Théoden King has decreed she is no longer welcome and is not to step foot in Edoras."

"For what cause? Duvaineth was kind and showed gratitude, was obedient to him."

"I do not know. The reason is beyond my knowledge, but it is one of the reasons why I am here."

A voice suddenly spoke. It was low and chilling to his ears, a voice Éomer could say with certainty he did not miss. "Is this not a pleasant surprise? What brings you hither so soon, my lord?" Grima now stood on his feet and had drawn closer. A placid smile was on his lips, but it did little to ease Éomer's discomfort. He had undoubtedly been listening to their conversation.

Éomer looked up at him, frowning. "What brings me hither so soon, you ask? Did Théoden King not ask of me to scout the Adorn River one last time before giving my full report, or do you not remember?" It was only nigh a week ago he was here, but mayhap a week was far too long. Éomer did not allow him to answer. Glancing at Théoden, he went on. "As I promised my king, I have scouted the East and West as commanded and have seen to the Riddermark's defenses along her borders, and now have come to report to him."

"Indeed?" Grima wondered. "I must say it took you a long time to perform that simple task."

Éomer tightened his jaw. "I was delayed by our enemies. My attention was held for a time. Now then, may I not speak with my uncle, or is family now prohibited from doing so?"

He was for certain he saw him sneer. "But of course, my lord," Grima answered quietly.

Éomer quietly walked past Grima with a swift stride. He knelt before the dais and bowed his head. "My lord, Théoden King."

Théoden was slow to speak, as if he was shrouded in a thick fog, lost and confused. "Éomer! Is it you?"

"It is, my lord."

"You have returned from your duty?"

"I have. May I report to my lord of the duty he entrusted me with?"

Grima was quick to speak. "Oh, but surely my king does not desire to be burdened with such dreary affairs. You have sat long enough in your halls concerned with matters that are none too pleasant, heavy in their struggles and grief. You need to rest."

"I asked Théoden King, did I not, Grima? I believe he can speak for himself," Éomer answered gruffly. "He shall decide if he wishes to hear me and he shall decide if he wishes to rest."

"Very well," Théoden answered, and waved his hand. "Speak all you have to tell me."

"Oh, but surely—" Grima began, but he was quickly interrupted.

"Trust you not my judgement, Master Grima?" Théoden frowned at him. "Doubt you your king's ability to hear and have sound judgment on news of his land? Or better yet, would you rather turn all our problems aside and sit in the shadows like slumbering beasts?"

"No, my lord! Assuredly, I trust in your judgement."

"Then rid me of your tongue for a moment, if you can manage, and let me hear how my land fairs!" Théoden then turned to Éomer. "Continue."

Éomer felt the corners of his mouth twitching, threatening to turn into a smile. It appeared Grima did not have a strong hold of the king yet, and for that he was very much relieved.

"Thank you, my lord." Éomer rose to his feet. "It was only a week ago that I returned to you but was again sent out to ensure the River Adorn was free of evil. Here is my full report from twenty days ago: I departed from Edoras with my men. We scouted the East and West and along our borders, as you commanded me. For a time, there was nothing; only silence, save for the occasional noises from the birds. For two weeks we scouted and ensured there were no signs of our enemies neither near our borders nor within our lands. I was preparing to return to Edoras when we were assailed by Orcs and since then they have increased in the Riddermark like flies. I have lost many men subsequently and our struggles to deter them grow greater by the day. We managed to repel them back and our lands remain safe, but for how long I do not know. If nothing is done, I fear the Orcs will continue to grow in number and we will lessen in our own. We must be prepared. It is difficult to say when their next attack may be. Every hamlet of the Riddermark must be made aware – Snowborne, the Wold, the East and West Fold. We have kept the Orcs at bay but they will return, and they will not stop until every field of the realm is in flames. The Adorn, however, shows no sign of intrusion from our enemies and as of now is peaceful."

"These are ill tidings brought to a weary man!" Grima exclaimed. "Why do you further trouble him? Can you not see he is concerned with much already?"

"It is indeed grim even for my own ears to hear myself speak these words, but they are true," Éomer replied. "It is in His Majesty's purview to know the state his lands. I would not be loyal to my king if I did not fully perform the duty he bestowed upon me. Would you not do the same as I, Grima, when faced with a hardship that holds many dangers?"

"You offend me, Lord Éomer." His voice was quiet and he spoke slowly, his beady eyes dark and glaring. "Have I not ever been loyal to Théoden King as you have? Have I not stood beside him faithfully and counseled him through these hardships we have experienced?"

"Indeed you have. You have been quite diligent in that task," Éomer answered dryly.

Grima scowled. "Mock me if you will, but in all I do it is for the wellbeing of the king. Why do you trouble him so with these ill-favored words? Did he not hear enough when you relayed to him of Orcs marching beyond our borders? Why do you feel the hateful need to add weight on his already heavy shoulders?"

"Hateful?" Éomer moved to step closer to him, but the quick pull of his arm from his sister made him stop. "Would you then have him be oblivious to the troubles of his own lands? That is a fool's way of living, to bury your head in the sand. I daresay no good will come from it. We are no longer at peace. We must be prepared for what is to come."

Éomer turned back to his uncle and again knelt at his feet. With a gentle touch to his arm, he pleaded earnestly, "I beseech you, Théoden King. What Grima says is spoken in falsehood. We are faced with the growing threats of evil each day. Your men are hard pressed and struggling to secure the Riddermark, and every day more fall to a terrible and painful fate wrought by Sauron's forces. Will naught be done?"

"You speak bitter lies!" Grima cried. "The Riddermark stands in peace, as it always has. What proof have you to your claim?"

"Be silent, Grima. You have spoken enough already," Théoden intoned. He turned his attention to his nephew. "If what you say is true, and I do not doubt it is, then indeed something will be done. I will give what men I can spare you."

Éomer bowed his head. "Thank you, my lord. I cannot express my gratitude enough. Yet I fear this does not draw our discourse to an end, for something has come to my attention and verily does it worry me and I humbly seek an answer, should my lord wish to give me one."

"Very well." Théoden nodded his head. "Stand! Tell me what bothers you so."

Slowly rising to his feet, Éomer shared a glance with his sister. The dark glimmer of fear in her eyes matched his own and he could hope only so fiercely there was no cause for it. But even now as a foreboding feeling wretched his guts, Éomer knew his distress was for naught. "Forgive me, Théoden King, if my asking offends you. It is today I discovered in my absence you have made a decree that Mistress Duvaineth is banished from Edoras."

He could feel the piercing gaze of Grima burning into his very skin. Théoden appeared to be unmoved, staring blankly at Éomer. "This is true."

"My lord…" Éomer chose his words very carefully. "Mistress Duvaineth was ever a humble guest in your home and professed nothing but kindness and deference unto you. There was never a moment in your presence she showed otherwise. Do you not remember?"

"I remember quite well, my nephew. You need not remind me."

"Would my asking of why the sudden change of heart offend my lord?"

"It would not," Théoden replied. "Long after her departure I began to hear whisperings. Murmurs about Mistress Duvaineth. They were few at first, like a small touch of wind, and I dismissed it and paid no heed. But they increased as time passed on and I was counseled in my growing concern. Wisdom was unveiled to me and I then understood. Mistress Duvaineth is ill company. There is something about her that brings great shadow to my heart and I will not risk the safety of my people."

"When has she ever merited such disfavor? Surely never! Was it not during her stay that she honored a king as she should?"

"Do not be deceived by her, for it is through her calm nature she would have you believe her to be someone she is not," Grima spoke up.

Éomer looked at him darkly. "And what do you know? You were hardly in her presence."

"I know plenty," Grima answered sharply. "You are fortunate I care so deeply for the kingdom, Lord Éomer, lest that wretched Elf—"

"The only thing that is wretched in the kingdom is you, Grima, and your malevolent words."

"Malevolent!" Grima exclaimed. "I have served my liege truthfully and loyally more than any could."

"Is that so?" Éomer questioned. "I wonder. You stand there and proclaim wickedness upon one whom you know nothing of and who was nothing short of kind and gracious to our king."

"She is strange, is she not? Have you not paused to dwell on the thought?" He sneered. "No, it is likely you have not. She is not trustworthy. You would do well to remember she now have the disfavor of the king."

"I take orders from my king, not some withering worm."

"I will hear no more of this," Théoden interrupted sternly. "My decree stands as it is: Mistress Duvaineth is banished from Edoras, and it will remain so. I will discuss this no more. Is that understood?"

Éomer stood in silence, stricken with utter astonishment. He could not bring himself to speak. No words that would aid him in this matter came to mind and he was left dumbfounded as his sister watched on with great dismay. What could one say? Was this indeed the king or was he forever gone? All he was able to do was bow his head. "Yes, my lord. Your will has been made clear. I will question you no more," he said quietly.

With a heavy heart Éomer turned away and left the company of Théoden. He did not walk very far before he was stopped by Éowyn. She grasped his forearm tightly and when Éomer looked at her he saw so much grief within the grey eyes that it shattered his heart. "Brother—"

"I know," was all Éomer softly said. And Éowyn bowed her head in despair, but he shook his head. "Why must this be a day to witness so much grief on such a fair face?" Éomer pulled her in a tight embrace. "Weep not, sweet Éowyn. All will be well."

"I would that he were the king we once knew him to be!"

"As do I. And even though we are beset against the shadow, and all hope and bonds of friendship leaves our king, my hope still prevails. And I would have yours as well." Éomer squeezed her shoulder gently. "Would that I could stay in your company longer, but there is something I must do. Will I see you later?"

"You shall." Éowyn nodded. "Do not worry about me. Go and do what you must."

"I will return shortly," Éomer promised. Tenderly touching her cheek, he offered her a smile and then left. As soon as he breathed in the fresh air, slowly the shadow that had long loomed over his heart faded, but he felt no better. The gripping fear for his uncle was heavy and it would not leave him any time soon, he gathered. Now was not the time for such burdening thoughts, however, for he had a promise to fulfill and he would not be distracted from it. It would not be said that Éomer son of Éomund did not keep his word. And with his best efforts he pushed away his thoughts. With a quick stride, Éomer hurried to the gates of Edoras, but he found Duvaineth nowhere in sight.

Confused, he turned to Eadgar. "Where is Mistress Duvaineth?"

The Man showed no reaction at the mention of the name. "She professed the fear of disobeying the King's law by being within Edoras and has gone southward to set up camp. It was her request that you be informed of this."

"Thank you," Éomer said gratefully, "though I must confess, I am surprised you were so willing to honor the request of an Elf."

Eadgar scowled. "Do not flatter her, my lord. If it meant her leaving my sight, then it was my greatest pleasure to comply."

Were the situation not so troubling Éomer would have answered with a witty remark, but he decided against it. Instead, he again thanked the Man and mounted Firefoot and went in search of Duvaineth. It did not take him long to find her. She had indeed settled to the far south amidst the fields, well beyond the sight of Edoras, and stood patiently with her faithful steed at her side. The only indication of movement was her cloak lightly billowing in the wind. Once he was near and dismounted, Duvaineth allowed a small smile to touch her lips, but her eyes bore a different look. "Judging by the look on your face, I suspect it did not go as you had wished it to."

"No," Éomer sighed, "it did not."

Duvaineth nodded and gestured to the long tree branch that lay next to her. "Sit with me, then, and tell me."

"I do not believe you will find any joy in my news, Mistress Duvaineth," he said dryly.

"No, I will not," Duvaineth agreed, "but tell me anyway."


	17. Chapter 17

**Author's Note:**

**I would like to extend a most heartfelt and grateful thank you to ****Ellethiriel, Sophia the Scribe, and Lady Silverfrost for their feedback. I enjoyed reading them very much, and they really helped understanding what I need to fix. So thank you, I appreciate it so much and please, keep the feedback coming! :D Here is a long chapter for you!**

**Reviews are loved. Constructive criticism is worshiped.**

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Idly fiddling with the reins attached to her steed, eyes cast down in a gloomy shroud that appeared too grey for any light to gleam through, Duvaineth dwelled on the news she had just received. She was quiet and had been for many moments now, not even so much as moving other than to shift where she sat on the log. The Rohír sitting next to her did not mind and he waited in silence for the elleth to find her words. At length, Duvaineth let out a long sigh before speaking. "It is as I feared, then. Indeed, there is no joy in hearing your words. Alas for these troubling times."

"Would that I could have done more," Éomer responded, a hint of sadness clear in his voice.

She gave a small, dismissive wave. "Nay, my lord. Do not blame yourself. You did all that you could do and I thank you for it. No one could have done better or have gone as far as you did."

"What will you do now?" Éomer asked, curious. "You came here to see how our lands fare and have now seen them, and that of our king's welfare. His sudden reticence now hinders you from what you wished to do. What now then?"

"I will stay and do what I can," she said. "You told me your lands are under recurrent attack by your enemies, no?"

"Yes, this is true. For now we have the borders secured and scouts stationed all throughout the Riddermark. That is not to say it will prevent them from attacking again, and I know they will."

Duvaineth nodded thoughtfully. "Then I will hunt these Orcs until commanded otherwise. I am banished from Edoras but I am not banished from your lands itself."

Éomer suddenly laughed. "And I see you have brought with you a sword this time!"

Duvaineth tilted her head and looked at him in confusion. He merely smiled and gestured to her waist. "If I recall the last time you were here, you had lost your sword, did you not?"

"Ah," she laughed. "Yes. You are correct."

A mischievous glint shone in Éomer's eyes. "That is well, for I would hate to know you roam these lands without a proper weapon, lest you find yourself pitted against Warg-riders again!"

They sat and talked for some time, relaying all that had occurred since they last saw each other. Duvaineth said little and merely listened to Éomer's tales, for she remembered the quest of the One Ring and its secrecy and was mindful of it and her own task. Hearing Éomer speak of the past events both intrigued and worried her. There were not too many good things that had come to pass; a particular interest of hers was the struggle against the strange Orcs, and she learned of the situation as much as she could. By the time Éomer drew to an end to his story telling, the day was growing late. The sun was quickly disappearing from the fields, clouds of orange mingled with yellow decorating the sky in a faded glow. When he finished and looked up, seeing that night would soon be upon them, Éomer knew it was time to depart. "It grows late. I have stayed longer than I should have, though I regret it not. Your company is always pleasant. And yet I still have many questions to answer my sister, and doubt do I not that Grima is either curious or joyous at my long absence."

Duvaineth nodded. There were not many words she could offer, but words were not needed. She joined the Marshall as he rose and approached Firefoot, beginning to prepare for the journey. "If I may, my lord," she began, "I would wish to advise you." When he looked at her, she continued. "Your uncle is not who he once was. When you speak before him, even if Grima is not present, I caution that you guard your mouth. I doubt not your love for your land. It is admirable, indeed, yet I am afraid it may bring you to trouble if you are not careful."

He smiled. "You speak truly, and such is what my sister would say to me! I will heed your words," Éomer promised. "Rest well, and I will return tomorrow morning as early as I may," Éomer promised.

"Come when you can. I do not sleep late." While there was truth to her words, the smile she said them with only just concealed their more disheartening undertone, or at least she hoped it did. If Éomer noticed, he gave no indication. With a farewell, he mounted on Firefoot and soon disappeared from sight, leaving Duvaineth alone to dwell in her thoughts by the fire. Hardly pleasant they were, and it was not until much later that Duvaineth realized she had been staring into the burning fire for some time, which was now beginning to dim as it died. She had the thought to eat. Her mouth watered at the images of food, and yet her stomach churned thinking about food. Had she troubled herself so much that she could not eat?

As Duvaineth lay down for the night, she pushed away the thoughts from her mind. And yet she could not stop thinking about Éomer's words, nor the discoveries she had made today. Her banishment was a reoccurring thought. However, though she had not expected to be banished from Edoras, Duvaineth was not too surprised by it. If anything, it concerned her, not because she had been wronged but because a strong influence was speaking in the king's ears. Though she could not say with full confidence in company, there was something tugging at her chest that told her Grima Wormtongue had a hand in this. He was closer to the King than she had first anticipated. If she wished to help Rohan and stay true to her quest, she would have to be careful.

Come the morning, Éomer kept true to his word. He returned as the sun was peaking over the horizon. There was something different about him, Duvaineth noticed. A change had fallen over him; he was not the Man who had sat with her last night exchanging tales and laughter. No, there a despondent set his shoulders, that much she could see. The deep creases on his forehead as his face was wrought in a frown told her more than enough that something was wrong.

"I would bid you a good morning, but I have a feeling that has not been so," Duvaineth said as she approached him.

"You are not wrong, and I am afraid I bear unpleasant news," Éomer sighed, dismounting from his stallion. "One that you must hear, though I wish it not. Your stay here in the Riddermark has been anything but peaceful."

Duvaineth merely smiled. "I am no stranger to things unpleasant or peaceless. Tell me what is wrong."

And so with a heavy heart Éomer relayed to her what happened. Amid his morning errands he had the unfortunate moment of bumping into Grima, and the encounter was none too pleasing by Duvaineth's ears. The most spoken matter was the king and his troubled and wearied mind, how he did not need to be bothered with pointless affairs, that such a conversation would only worsen him. While this brought forth a new depth of concern from the Rohír, it was not quite so for Duvaineth. What she felt was not what Éomer felt, but anger.

"He then wishes for the king to be oblivious of his lands and the troubles they face," she said. "If Théoden King is unaware of the threat, then naught will be done."

"That is what I fear," Éomer affirmed morosely.

"Rohan would sooner fall than to stand against the Enemy under the leadership of the king's advisor." Duvaineth shook her head and began to pace. "No. This cannot happen. He is not as helpless as Grima perceives him to be, not yet. If he can but hear words of reason mayhap it can help him see through the pressing darkness that surrounds him. I must speak with him."

"Do not mistake my inquiry for doubt, but how will you accomplish that? Grima does not leave his side and you are banished from stepping in Edoras. Pardon my boldness but I have little doubt you will go very far, and your treatment will worsen tenfold."

Duvaineth stopped in her tracks. "No. You are right," she said, turning to him. "I cannot speak directly to him, nay, but mayhap I can in another way. With your consent, I would like to write a letter to your king and ensure it is delivered to him, for his eyes alone."

Éomer stood silent as he dwelled on her words. After a moment, he nodded, saying, "If there is anyone who can deliver the letter safely it would be the king's son, Théodred. No one distrusts Grima more than him, even with my own reservations as they are. I feel he would be more successful than I. Grima would not dare intrude upon the privacy of the king and his son. Write the letter and I will seek Théodred's assistance."

"Are you certain?" she asked. "It is no desire of mine to interfere in a king's life nor to include anyone, least of all his family. And I ask for your forgiveness with the hope that whatever claims are being held against me do not appear true to your eyes, but I fear without Théoden King, the sole purpose of his advisor is to do great ill unto these lands."

"You bear good intentions behind your request, and for the well-being of my home. I cannot say anyone else would have been so concerned as you have been, whether he be a Man or Elf," Éomer said, "and because of that you shall always have a friend in me who not only agrees with what you say but shares equal concern for these lands."

At a loss for words, Duvaineth was only able to offer the sign of respect her own kin often showed – by bowing her head, placing a hand over her heart. Shortly after, she set to work on her letter. It took her little time and in that time she wrote a powerful message; of boldness and genuine concern, she beseeched Théoden to hear her and to become aware of what his lands were suffering, despite what he may be told by his advisor. These were not words Duvaineth would dare utter before a king, whether through a written letter or at his feet. In her eyes it was a great offense to say such things, for indeed during her last stay in Edoras he had been nothing but kind and gracious and deserved the respect he was due. Now he was greatly changed, and not by his own will. It was in her letter that Duvaineth hoped it would clear the king from whatever haze consumed him, and that no offense would be taken in her boldness, for surely then she would be punished.

At once Éomer returned to Edoras with the letter hidden within his garb and sought his cousin Théodred, who had only just returned from his battle against their enemies the day before, now currently at ease in his chambers as he savored the peace. Éomer found him lounging in a chair nearby the door, legs languidly stretched out and crossed with one heel touching the floorboards. "Is this what you do when you return from battle?" he jested. "Lazily repose in the confines of your chambers? For shame, cousin."

Théodred's lips twitched slightly. "If I am not mistaken, I believe you first seek a long rest before when you first return home."

"Ah, and so the tables have turned against me!" Éomer laughed heartily. "Sleep is a beautiful gift. I cannot deny it is the first thing on my mind after a long journey and relish in it."

"As do I." Théodred rose from the chair and embraced his cousin. "How joyous it is to see you, Éomer! It has been far too long. To what do I owe this delightful visit?"

"A request, if you will," Éomer answered. "Your return has only been brief and it brings me no pleasure to ask for your assistance in your time of respite, but disheartening news has reached my ears and I doubt it has yet to reach your own."

Théodred frowned. "Tell me. What has happened?"

"Firstly, I must ask: do you remember Mistress Duvaineth?"

"The wounded Elf who stayed here for a time?" A light seemed to dance in his eyes at the mention of her and he nodded. "Certainly, I do. She was pleasant and I enjoyed her company. What of her?"

"She has returned and seeks to help us repel our enemies, only now it seems she is banished from Edoras."

Théodred's eyes widened. "Banished!" he exclaimed. "What for?"

"Neither she nor I know, and the discourse concerning the matter offered no light to the situation, other than that the king deemed her dangerous company," Éomer answered. "Sudden this came, and in my absence as well. I can only gather he was influenced to do this, for it is unlike him. You know it is."

"Grima," Théodred spat out bitterly. "Of course. His words are wrought with poison and my father heeds him still. Have you not seen him? Grima's influence is strong, and verily do I fear for my father. Alas," he sighed, "would that I could help."

"Mayhap you can," Éomer said. He withdrew the folded piece of parchment from his tunic and held it out to Théodred. "A letter from Duvaineth to our king. What is written, I know not, but I trust she speaks words of wisdom that may yet lift him from his weak state."

A glimmer of understanding shown in Théodred's eyes. "You wish for me to deliver it."

"I feel you are better suited for it. Éowyn is weary and there will come a time when neither I nor you will be here to dissuade Grima, and I fear during that time Théoden King will only worsen. If there is a chance her words will ease him from this clutch of darkness he wanders in, then I must believe in Duvaineth."

For a short while Théodred was silent, eyes taking on that distant haze that Éomer knew was indicative of his mind churning away. Though there was nothing in his face to tell what he was thinking, Théodred accepted the parchment from him and for a moment he again looked thoughtful again before looking back at him. "Strange I find it that an Elf cares so for our lands, but I am grateful for it nevertheless, as I do not think Mistress Duvaineth to be ill company as it is made to believe. I will see to it that my father receives this letter."

The sun was beginning to set when Éomer returned to Duvaineth. He did not come alone, bearing his sister with him on the back of Firefoot. This came as a surprise to the elleth, for many concerns have been heavy on her mind and had little time to think about company. But she was joyous all the same and greeted Éowyn with a broad smile and embrace. They all sat together for a long while, sharing stories and passing events since they had last seen each other. While Éowyn had a tale or two to share, some of which incited roars of laughter, she was more interested in hearing Duvaineth speak about Imladris. Even Éomer seemed curious about the Elven realm and intently listened to her tales. It brought Duvaineth just as much joy to speak of it. Vivid images of her home filled her memory and great was the desire to once again bask in its comforts, even if it was a tale.

Alas, the time soon came for both Éomer and Éowyn to return to the Meduseld, lest suspicion should arise at their prolonged absence. Bidding farewell to each other, Duvaineth and Éowyn embraced with the promise to see each other again. As the Woman returned to Firefoot and waited for her brother, Éomer lingered and, pulling the elleth aside, he said to her quietly, "I have spoken with Théodred. He has agreed to help and promised the letter would reach the king, and privately."

Duvaineth breathed a sigh of relief. "I thank you, my lord."

"Verily, I hope your words will have an effect on him," Éomer said, "and though Grima is only a Man and can do so much, his words will bear great fruit if my uncle heeds them."

"That is what I fear the most," Duvaineth replied grimly.

Éomer responded with a nod. No words were needed, however, for she knew his thoughts matched her own. With a promise to return as soon as he received news of the king's response to her letter, Éomer offered a smile and then mounted Firefoot with his sister and was soon galloping in trail of dirt. Night came no sooner, nor did she fall asleep so easily. For some time Duvaineth stared up at the twinkling stars, her mind racing, and it felt like hours had passed before she fell into a light slumber. Much to her displeasure, dark dreams plagued her once more. Short her slumber seemed as well, and when she awoke in the morning Duvaineth felt she had not slept at all.

After eating and tending to Gilroch, Duvaineth decided to pass some time as she waited for the Marshall's return. The wait would be long and already her body was teeming with anxiety. Duvaineth indulged in her preferred pastime. She retrieved two of her daggers and began to practice. Swift were her swipes and deadly were her hands, a tight grip as she lunged and thrusted and twirled the blades. So immersed in her practice was she that Duvaineth did not hear the galloping of hooves, or Éomer arriving to her camp. For a time, the Rohír sat quietly and watched, his lips twitching into a smile. At length, he dismounted Firefoot and decided to announce his arrival. "If you continue to battle with the air like that, your daggers may wear thin!" he lightly teased.

Duvaineth abruptly stopped, a smile coming to her lips as she turned to him. "I believe I have caused enough injury to the air," she laughed, sheathing her weapons. "What brings you here so early, my lord? Has the king already given his answer?"

"I am afraid not yet," Éomer answered. "That is why I have come. Théodred has recently sought a private council with the king and will give him your letter. What will come to pass, I do not know, should he say anything at all."

"It is not his words that unnerve me but the wait," Duvaineth said, her face contorted in a solemn expression.

"I deem it will be a long wait." Éomer looked down and a smile tugged at his lips. "You wield your daggers well, but how skilled are you with a blade?"

"Well, if I may say, enough to fend off my enemies at the very least," was Duvaineth's answer.

"Let us put your skills to the test, then," Éomer suggested. "If anything, it will distract us for a time. Sparring is my favorite pastime and I relish in it whenever I get the chance. If those dead Orcs and Wargs I saw when we first met were any indication of your skills, then it will certainly be a good challenge."

"That is a fine idea, my lord," she agreed. She unsheathed her sword. "Shall we begin?"

Their sparring match was brief. Duvaineth's new sword proved to be of impressive quality. It parried and blocked the Marshall's attacks flawlessly and allowed her to make her own with ease. Awed by its craftsmanship, she could not help but marvel at its perfect balance, the firmness of its edge against the impact of Éomer's own, the girth of the hilt just right for the size of her hand. This should not have come to her as a surprise, for such was the way of her kin. That was soon long forgotten. Somehow, for strange reasons Duvaineth could not explain, her attention was focused on Éomer.

He was a fair Man to look upon, that itself could not be denied. And in all her time knowing Éomer, there had to have been many times where she looked at his face but was now recognizing his fair features. His strong jawline, the way his dark eyes shone with mischievous glee, how the strong contours of his muscles flexed under his garments with each movement. Indeed, Éomer was blessed with handsome features –but why was she just now noticing this?

Before she could fall into a reverie of thoughts, Duvaineth felt a sharp sting of pain. She withdrew her hand with a yelp and cradled it in her other palm. Looking down, she saw the heavy trickle of blood seeping from the wound. It was a decently sized laceration and stung fiercely. Éomer was already checking her wound, having dropped his sword to the ground. "Mistress Duvaineth, I am sorry!" he said apologetically, the guilt evident in his voice. "I did not mean to inflict harm."

"Do not worry yourself, my lord," Duvaineth reassured. "It is my fault, not yours. I was not as attentive as I should have been."

Éomer did not answer. He tenderly took her injured hand in his bigger one, and Duvaineth froze at the contact. His skin was warm and though calloused, he was gentle. It was strangely nice, and not entirely unwelcomed. "It is only a flesh wound," Éomer said after a moment, "but it does need treated before it worsens." He quickly retrieved a piece of cloth from his saddlebag, and using water from his skin, he rinsed the blood from her hand before binding it up, tying it securely with a firm knot. "There. All done." Éomer said, smiling.

"You have my thanks, Lord Éomer, though I ask you not to blame yourself. It was my own mistake. I should have been more attentive. I was distracted."

"Indeed, that can be dangerous, _is_ dangerous, whether sparring or in battle," Éomer said. He regarded her with curiosity. "If I may ask, what was it that distracted you?"

Duvaineth paused. In that moment, she realized Éomer was still holding her hand. As soon as her eyes fell from his face and to their joined hands, he too came to realize this as well. He slowly released her hand, though with some reluctance. Duvaineth opened her mouth to speak but no words came out. How was she supposed to give reason behind her distraction when it was Éomer who had been her distractor? Fortunately for Duvaineth, she did not need to give an answer, for the sound of hooves filled the air. Turning, they saw Théodred approaching on a dark brown steed, riding with haste against the very wind.

"Théodred!" Éomer exclaimed when his cousin was within ear shot. "What do you here? I did not expect your discourse with the king to end so soon."

"It has, and I bring news for Mistress Duvaineth." Théodred fixed his gaze on the elleth, smiled, and nodded politely. "Mistress, it is good to see you again. I regret you have come to the king's realm in such a time as this and have been treated as you have by the king himself. And yet I believe your letter may have had a hand in bringing forth light to his hazy mind. He wishes to speak with you and have myself and Éomer stand as witness."

Astonishment settled over Duvaineth's features. "Truly, my lord?"

"It is," he smiled. "Will you not come, Mistress?"

"Certainly, I will," she said, "for I would not dare refuse the king."

It took them little time to reach Edoras. They burst through the gates, passing by Aglar and Eadgar like a gust of the wind, paying no mind to the look of shock on their faces as they exchanged a glance. Eyes were on them, watching them make haste through the town, though Duvaineth was their main interest. Upon arrival to Meduseld, Théodred did not allow the guards to question Duvaineth's presence and merely instructed them to watch their steeds. If the brief uncertainty in Háma's eyes were of any indication, then Duvaineth was now herself certain of Lord Elrond's fears – there was indeed work being done here, and not for good.

"If the king has requested an audience with her, then I will let her pass," Háma said, "but you must not take your time, for even though the king himself wishes to see her, I am uneasy. She is still banished and her presence here can perpetrate great ire from many."

"You have nothing to fear. I feel the conversation will be brief and no wrath will be fall upon anyone," Théodred assured.

Háma nodded and allowed them to pass. The moment Duvaineth stepped inside the Meduseld, she nearly stopped in her tracks. The air felt different than she last remembered. It was cold and the halls were dark, save for the beam of sunlight bathing through the windows. As she was led to the throne by both Théodred and Éomer, the sight of Théoden King quickly came into view, and for a moment she had mistaken him as someone else; so worn he seemed, and grey were his eyes that little light shone within. And yet tall he still was even as he sat, appearing very much like a king.

As they approached the dais, Théodred and Éomer bowed. "My king," Théodred greeted, "as you have requested, I have brought with me Mistress Duvaineth, and myself and Éomer stand witness on this day."

They then moved aside, allowing Duvaineth to come forward, and she immediately genuflected with a bow of her head. "I am here, Théoden King, and honored I am that you have called for me."

"Rise, Duvaineth," Théoden said. She obeyed, raising her head. Théoden looked at her curiously. "You have been gone for some time. Where have you been?"

"Forgive me, Théoden King, for I left unexpectedly nigh three months ago. An urgent matter returned me to my home. It was a call I could not ignore and I had little time to spare."

"Nor would you have been asked to," Théoden said. "You have now returned, and I…realize you have not had the fair treatment you once received. And yet you still humble yourself before me. Why?"

"Because you are the king, my lord, and whether or not I receive the courtesy you once extended to me, never shall I myself extend disrespect to you, for I have no doubt that you had good reason to banish me from your home, what may my crimes against your lordship have been, and it is because I have indeed offended you somehow that I fully accept my punishment, and seek your pardon. It was never my intention to displease you."

Théoden gazed at her with wonder in his eyes. "Grudgingly you have been treated, and wrongly so! This you know to be, yet you do not complain. How could I have believed the evil words about you that are indeed false?" He shook his head in disbelief. "I read your letter. Your words brought a warmth to my cold limbs, and yet a shadow is upon my heart, for I dread to think how long I sat wasting away while my lands have struggled against our enemies. No more! I realize now my errors and I am sorry for them. If you would have it, a great pleasure it would be of mine to welcome you back to Edoras once more, and into my home."

Joy and relief washed over Duvaineth. She nearly let out her breath she did not realize she had been holding. In truth, she had not been very hopeful her letter would be much of an influence to the king, if at all. Heavy did the shroud surrounding him seem, and she wondered at length whether if anything could be done. She was thrilled to know she was wrong. "It would be my pleasure to dwell in your halls, Théoden King, for however long you should have me."

"Then I should have you stay for as long you wish," Théoden said. "As for now, I must speak with my nephew alone and I bid you now to go and do as you will. Bring your steed to the stables. Eat. Rest. Whatever you may now need, fulfill it."

Duvaineth bowed her head. "As you wish, Théoden King. It is my hope to see you soon."

"And you shall," the king promised.

"Come with me, Mistress Duvaineth, and I will show you a room for your stay," Théodred offered, gesturing with his hand at one of the corridors. "You may settle in and later rejoin the king and Lord Éomer this evening. I have no doubt you would like to view Edoras, as your last visit was confined due to your injuries."

Duvaineth nodded her answer and fell silently at the prince's side, following him down the corridor – but not without stealing a glance back at Théoden, a smile pulling at the corners of her mouth when she saw he and Éomer were already engrossed in a conversation. She felt more relief than joy, and though she had little doubt the king's relief from his darkness would last long and that Grima himself would find this very displeasing, perhaps for now it has delayed any danger.

Or so she hoped.


End file.
